GRANITE 
AND 

ALABASTER 


RAYMOND 


HOLDEN 


//727 


GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Lm 

TORONTO 


GRANITE  and  ALABASTER 


BY 

RAYMOND  HOLDEN 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PBINTED  IN    THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,   1922, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

Set  up  and  printed.     Published  November,  1922. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  MY  WIFE 


G253&!) 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Certain  of  the  poems  included  in  this 
volume  have  appeared  in  the  pages  of  Poetry 
(Chicago),  Contemporary  Verse,  The  Forge, 
The  Survey,  The  Literary  Review,  The  Mid 
land,  The  Nation,  The  Measure,  Vanity  Fair, 
The  Yale  Review.  Thanks  are  due  the  editors 
of  those  publications  for  permission  to  reprint 
in  this  volume. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ONCE 13 

SUGARING       14 

THE  SUMMIT 17 

LOST  WATER 1S 

SNOW  RAIN ^ 

BORERS 20 

BURYING  GROUND 21 

WINTER 22 

THE  PLOW 

MOUNTAIN 24 

GHOSTLY  RETROSPECT 26 

To  THE  NORTH  WIND 27 

SPRING  BUILDING 30 

NIGHT  ABOVE  THE  TREE  LINE 33 

FIREWOOD 35 

PROSPECT 36 

MOOD 37 

PROMONTORY 38 

THE  PASSENGER  PIGEON 41 

FISHING 42 

SNOW 44 

WINTER  FIRE 45 

OPEN  WINDOWS 48 

THE  WOODMAN 49 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

riai 

LIFE 60 

GROWTH 51 

AFTER  THE  CIRCUS 52 

SEASON'S  END 54 

ROCK  FOWLER 55 

AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS 67 

MEMORIAL 69 

AUTUMN  1918 70 

FEBRUARY  TWENTY-SECOND 71 

To  THE  DEAD 72 

SENSES 73 

FLESH 74 

MIDNIGHT:  BATTERY  PARK 75 

OCTOBER 76 

WALT  WHITMAN 77 

To  A  SKYLARK 78 

THE  DISSEMBLING  LOOK 79 

ADVICE 80 

DIFFERENT  STREETS 81 

To  THE  URBANE 82 

EARLY  FLOWERS 83 

ILLUSION        84 

THE  END  OF  MARCH 85 

PARADOX 86 

THE  AMPLE  CLOAK 87 

QUATORZAINE 88 

PASSERS-BY 89 

LONGSHOREMAN       92 

SOLILOQUY 93 

SURRENDER 95 


CONTENTS  XI 

PAGB 

SHIRKING 97 

BBETONNB 98 

CIRCE 100 

CALYPSO 101 

WINDMILL 103 

WIDOW'S   WEEDS 104 

NEW  SINGING 105 

PRESENCE 107 

DANCE 108 

REACH  Our 110 

You  AND  I Ill 

EPITHALAMIUM 112 

STORM 115 

NOCTURNE 110 

WORDS 117 

THE  DURHAMS  .  118 


GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 


ONCE 

Once  there  was  silt  and  gravel  everywhere 
And  water  running  in  great  roaring  floods — 
No  feet  on  earth  nor  wings  upon  the  air 
Nor  any  green  that  could  have  promised  buds. 
There  was  a  vast  ice  precipice  withdrawing 
Slower  than  snails  to  a  glittering  cold  rest 
About  the  uncertain  pole  while  waters  gnawing 
At  rigid  rock  made  room  for  root  and  nest. 
Then  some  ancestral  cell  now  lodged  in  me 
Went  writhing  gaily  under  the  glacier  tongue 
Pastured  upon  a  wild  uncertainty. 
Now  there  are  men.    Life  is  no  longer  young. 
Now  there  is  warm  flesh  and  warm  vocal  breath. 
The  only  glacier  is  the  shadow  of  death. 


SUGARING 


A  man  may  think  wild  things  under  the  night 
In  March  when  there  is  a  tapping  within  pails 
Hung  breast-high  on  the  maples.    Then  the  stars, 
Washed  by  a  wind  that  all  day  long 
Lay  in  the  sunny  pastures  of  the  thaw, 
Shine  like  what  eyes  would  be  if  men  were  gods. 
Then  the  trees  seem  like  rootlets  sprung  from  earth 
Into  the  fertile  mold  of  the  black  air. 
A  man  may  think  wild  things  under  the  stars 
In  March  when  gusty  ground-winds  stretch  their  veils 
Across  deep  footprints  in  the  hillside  snow. 
He  may  believe  that  life  is  beautiful 
And  will  outlast  all  Autumns  and  all  Winters. 
He  may  believe  that  his  warm  body  is  one 
With  rock  and  root  and  iron-fingered  frost 
And  that  its  happy  power  is  like  the  sap 
The  subject  of  inevitable  rise 
Timed  by  sure  seasons,  promised  to  the  skies. 

14 


SUGAKING  15 


Look!    The  mountain  shoulders  a  weight  of  moon 

Come  from  the  many  million  miles  of  night 

To  move  among  these  vapors  which  go  up 

And  wind  among  the  winds.    The  brown  sap  works 

Its  foamy  bulk  over  a  great  log  fire. 

Colors  of  flame  light  up  a  man  who  kneels 

With  sticks  upon  his  arm  and  in  his  face 

A  grimace  of  resistance  to  the  glow. 

The  very  world  is  burning,  though  it  be  March, 

With  a  wild  flame  which  stirs  the  life  of  trees 

Here  in  the  vat  and  the  blood  in  a  man's  heart. 

Out  there  among  the  roots  thaw-runnels  make 

The  only  music  heard  above  the  sway 

Of  branches  fingering  the  falling  silver. 

The  fierce  flames  roar  and  the  embers  settle  down 

Slowly  into  that  darkness  which  sends  a  man 

Up  and  away  to  sleep  a  tired  sleep 

And  dream  of  dripping  from  a  rotting  roof 

Back  into  sap  that  once  was  rid  of  him. 

HI 

Close  the  iron  doors  and  let  the  fire  die 

And  the  faint  night-wind  blow  through  the  broken  walls. 

The  sugar  thickens  and  the  moon  is  gone 

And  frost  threads  up  the  singing  rivulets. 

I  am  going  up  the  mountain  toward  the  stars 


16  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

But  I  should  like  to  lie  near  earth  to-night, 
Earth  that  has  borne  the  furious  grip  of  Winter 
And  given  a  kind  of  birth  to  beauty  at  last. 
Earth!     The  old  breath  thrills  through  her  once  again 
And  there  will  be  passion  soon,  shaking  her  veins 
And  driving  her  spirit  upward  till  the  buds 
Burst  overhead  and  swallows  find  the  eaves 
Of  the  sugar-house  untroubled  by  the  talk 
Of  men  gone  off  with  teams  to  mend  the  roads. 
I  think  I  shall  throw  myself  down  here  in  the  snow 
So  to  be  very  near  her  when  she  stirs- 
Near  to  the  throbbing  of  this  body  of  hers. 


THE  SUMMIT 

Here  where  a  man  seems  in  the  grip  of  hands 

Which  reach  up  out  of  the  indistinct  below 

As  if  to  drag  him  from  the  place  he  stands 

Into  a  blue  gulf  where  the  tree-tops  flow 

And  straighten  and  ebb  the  weathered  peak  is  worn, 

As  if  from  too  much  cleaving  of  the  sky, 

To  a  crumbling  blade  whose  temper  storms  have  borne 

Down  to  give  breadth  to  meadows  where  cows  lie. 

So  the  interminable  change  goes  on 

Always  among  the  most  established  things. 

The  vast  snow  pinnacles  which  were  here  are  gone 

Beyond  the  reach  of  even  eyes  or  wings 

And  man  stands  on  the  ridges  which  remain 

Feeling  the  earth  dissolving  in  its  rain. 


17 


LOST  WATER 

It  is  a  doubtful  noon  under  these  trees, 

And  I  am  digging  in  the  stony  sand 

Among  the  roots  of  what  a  little  since 

Were  blue  and  yellow  flags  and  now  are  pods. 

Deeper  and  deeper,  and  the  depth  is  cool 

And  forest  sounds  are  soft  as  a  man's  breath. 

Old  pines  have  done  old  apple  trees  to  death 

And  stiffening  silence  is  upon  them  now. 

The  sun  and  I  are  looking  for  the  sweet 

Quiet  waters  of  the  rocky  veins  of  earth 

In  leaf  and  root  and  where  mold-bitten  staves 

Remember  lips  that  drank  of  cups  now  broken 

And  the  time  when  buttercups  were  mirrored  here 

Where  now  there  is  a  masonry  of  crusted  leaves. 

It  is  a  doubtful  noon  under  the  pines 

That  press  their  fingered  tops  to  the  low  sky, 

A  doubtful  noon,  a  doubtful  world,  and  I  ... 


18 


SNOW  RAIN 

I  am  not  one  to  mind  the  rain  when  it  comes 
Fingering  the  sinking  snow  and  leaving  prints 
Of  passage  heard  to  tell  from  the  touch  of  grass 
Bent  by  a  rabbit's  frenzy  or  the  wind. 
Days  like  to-day  there  is  something  very  near 
Always  upon  the  point  of  breaking  through. 
Men  of  the  mountain  towns  in  the  milk-train 
Quicken  the  air  with  tales  of  leaping  deer 
And  myths  of  caribou  gone  fifty  years 
Come  back  to  visions  straining  beyond  sight. 
Something  of  me  goes  out  into  their  talk 
For  I  have  lain  upon  the  quiet  snow 
Watching  for  flying  feet  and  listening 
For  the  murmuring  trees  to  burst  with  sudden  wings, 
And  I  have  felt  the  drops,  as  they  fall  now 
Come  down  almost  in  passion  for  a  world 
Made  beautiful  by  the  presence  of  glad  men. 
Even  now  I  think  there  is  something  very  close 
Ready  to  sweep  like  rainfall  over  me, — 
These  men,  the  lingering  patterns  of  the  snow, 
The  wet  that  alters  them,  the  purple  river, 
I  climb  upon  these  things  almost  to  touch 
The  beauty  of  that  power  I  almost  know. 

19 


BORERS 

The  red-nosed  grubs  that  burrow  under  bark 

Of  pines  too  old  to  earn  their  daily  sunlight 

Have  come  from  some  place  which  is  very  dark 

In  the  imaginings  beyond  my  eyes. 

I  hear  them  munching  in  their  paradise 

Of  many  cells  steeped  in  still-running  sap. 

I  lie  half-dozing  in  the  patchy  sunlight 

And  if  it  were  not  for  ants  I  should  have  a  nap. 

But  I  do  not  care  to  think  the  world  is  dying 

Slow  death  from  mouth  to  mouth  of  things  that  creep 

Or  spread  where  lack  of  sun  means  never  drying 

For  I  am  not  really  sure  that  now  and  then 

Some  sudden  glance  of  some  one  among  men 

Could  fail  to  find  me  sullied,  no,  not  sure, — 

Not  sure  enough  to  lose  the  ants  and  sleep. 

There  are  only  times  when  earth  and  I  are  pure. 


BURYING  GROUND 

There  is  nothing  here  but  the  elms  for  me  to  speak  to 

And  so  I  say,  Why  do  you  draw  yourselves 

Upward  away  from  these  poor  planted  people 

Who  would  be  forgotten  but  for  their  stones? 

Small  need  I  have  to  ask  that  of  the  elms 

For  I  myself  am  only  passing  by 

With  the  dust  and  the  wind  and  the  seeds  of  pines, 

Knowing  that  there  is  no  stone  waiting  here 

For  me  to  come  and  burrow  under  it, 

No  stone  to  mark  me  different  from  the  elms 

That  give  the  earth  to  the  sky. 


21 


WINTER 

Drowsily,  dreamily,  the  brown  boughs 

Mingle  and  murmur  in  the  breeze 

And  the  little  animals  drowse 

And  I  wonder  they  do  not  freeze, 

For  nothing  moves  but  is  shrill 

With  the  Winter's  clinking  song 

And  the  snow  lies  deep  and  the  hill 

Gleams  where  the  gusts  are  strong. 

I  have  come  down  from  the  house 

Which  rests  on  the  reaching  snow 

To  the  music  of  murmuring  boughs 

In  the  footless  world  I  know, 

And  to  me  the  cold  is  a  voice 

From  earth  that  would  speak  to  me 

And  urge  me  not  to  rejoice 

That  I  am  not  beast  nor  tree; 

And  to  me  the  warmth  of  my  blood 

Is  an  answer  saying,  "I  hear," 

And  so  we  are  understood 

And  so  we  have  nothing  to  fear 

Though  I  am  a  man  who  dies 

And  the  earth  is  like  dust  in  the  skies. 

22 


THE  PLOW 


I  thought  the  white  patch  on  the  Eastern  hill 
Was  surely  snow.    I  watched  it  and  it  stirred, 
And  even  the  drifted  uplands  lost  the  chill 
They  had  been  blowing  downward  and  a  bird 
Flashed  blue  and  there  were  others  which  I  heard. 


n 


The  patch  of  snow  moved  with  a  man  behind  it 
And  furrows  on  the  hillside  rippled  brown. 
The  Winter  went  like  water  from  my  mind 
And  the  misty  April  sun  came  faintly  down 
And  I  forgot  the  road  which  leads  to  town. 


in 


I  was  not  anything  but  one  desire 
To  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  billowy  blade 
With  wind  and  water  and  my  kind  of  fire — 
To  cleave  the  fallow  hillside  and  invade 
Young  earth  and  rise  up  glad  and  unafraid. 


23 


MOUNTAIN 

Over  the  yellow  tops  of  tamaracks 

The  dusk  floats.    Up  the  valley  wild  ducks  fly 

With  light  from  the  gone  sun  upon  their  backs. 

Across  the  torrent,  cloaked  in  purple  sky, 
Endowed  with  the  sure  silence  a  man  lacks, 
A  mountain  rises,  grave  and  great  and  high. 

Oh,  Mountain!     Island  in  a  sea  of  change! 

What  starry  vault  of  the  cathedral  air 

Can  house  the  murmurs  of  those  prayers  which  range 

Up  from  my  blood  toward  you,  who  triumph  there 
Over  the  powers  which  have  kept  man  strange 
To  what  earth,  fire,  and  wind  and  water  share? 

Sea-currents  shifted  sands  and  you  were  piled 
Above  the  unbroken  shimmer  of  the  sea 
And  taking  power  and  person  from  the  wild 

Warm  sun,  you  shook  your  rocky  shoulders  free 
And  the  waters  fell  and  tempests  came  and  filed 
Your  great  shape  to  this  glory  which  I  see. 
24 


MOUNTAIN  25 

But  I,  the  foundling  fire  upon  your  slope, 

Remember  nothing  of  my  lineage. 

I  have  been  taught  by  wandering  troops  of  hope 

And  I  know  nothing.    Snow-berry  and  saxifrage 
Rest  tired  roots  in  your  heart  but  my  roots  grope 
At  earth  and  sun  and  rain  and  wind  that  rage 

And  find  them  all  inapprehensible. 

Oh,  take  me  up  to  your  dusk-vaulted  walls 

Or  fall  and  silence  this  loud  steeple-bell 

Of  shadow-vaulted  flesh,  this  bronze  that  calls 

To  the  unguided,  unremembering  swell 

Of  a  lost  air  through  which  a  lost  star  fallsl 


GHOSTLY  RETROSPECT 

Through  spruces  lightened  by  a  flash  of  birch 

Foot  over  foot  soft  toe-pads  patter  down. 

Grim  little  beasts  go  silently  in  search 

Of  birds  whose  odors  linger  though  they  have  flown. 

Even  the  sun  is  stealthy  as  it  falls 

Down  through  the  darkness  and  the  wind  seems  full 

Of  spectral  breaths  from  the  kind  of  life  which  calls 

To  the  hungry  mouse  and  the  towering  horned  bull. 

I  walk  on  stones  in  the  shadow  of  steel  and  glass 

But  I  remember  earth  as  it  once  was, 

So  that  the  look  of  men  and  girls  that  pass 

These  eyes  which  feed  what  senses  a  man  has 

Is  animately  strange,  as  if  it  were  sight 

Of  sleek  beasts  slinking  through  a  jungle  night. 


28 


TO  THE  NORTH  WIND 


No  wash  of  the  twelve-silvered  earth's  long  flight, 

No  frosty  fury  warring  with  sun  gold 

Brings  you  to  blow  from  the  black-breasted  night 

Wind  of  the  North!    Tide  of  this  sea  of  birch! 

You  are  the  rich,  uncoveted  delight 

Given  to  those  mad  men  who  madly  hold 

Close  to  their  hearts  throughout  their  short-houred  search 

That  faithful  fire  which  keeps  them  from  the  cold 

Of  meshy  lanes  through  which  the  planets  lurch. 


ii 

By  night,  when  the  inevitable  shade 
Climbs  from  our  roofs  up  cloud-stairs  zenithward 
And  hangs  in  heavy  sweeps  from  blade  to  blade 
Of  many-sworded  stars,  with  you  at  heart 
I  wander  from  the  waterside  parade 
Through  a  silence  of  small  alleys,  window-starred. 
The  cobbles  speak  to  me,  lamp  fingers  part 
Shadows  like  veils.    I  whom  my  reasons  guard 
From  swift  surprise  look  up  toward  you  and  start. 

27 


28  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

HI 

Drawn  by  your  presence  flowing  in  the  air, 
Urged  by  the  ancient  mission  of  my  veins 
I  enter  the  last  door.     A  radiance  there 
Bright  as  the  loveliest  planet  of  the  seven 
Disarms  the  sad  mask  of  the  sense  I  wear, 
Leaps  from  the  stillness  of  the  place  and  strains 
My  body  to  its  beauty.    A  glad  heaven 
Dawns  in  the  dusk,  dispels  the  mind's  black  pains 
And  fills  me  with  more  fire  than  fills  suns  even. 

IV 

Then  the  auroral  prominences  fade, 

Lifting  their  roots  from  out  my  burning  breast, 

Folding  their  flames  that  seared  the  senseless  shade 

Behind  my  eyes.     Then  I  arise  and  go. 

Far  overhead  the  planet  undismayed 

Swims  with  slow  splendor  toward  its  heavenly  West. 

I  from  the  happy  regions  where  you  blow 

Fall  downward,  desolate  and  dispossessed, 

Into  those  ways  which  there  are  none  below. 


Lean  downward  from  your  station  in  the  sky, 
Beloved  Beauty!     Sweet  Crepuscular 
Young  Goddess  of  the  silver-passioned  eye! 
Lean  down  and  touch  me,  take  me  if  you  will ! 


TO   THE   NORTH   WIND  29 

I  am  a  wanderer,  a  strange  passer-by. 

You  with  your  young-mouthed  laughter  want  a  star. 

I  am  a  wanderer  gathering  coals  to  fill 

A  dead  star-body.    I  have  wandered  far. 

Here  is  my  orbit  ended,  on  this  hill. 

VI 

Forgive  me  the  futility  of  hands, 
Forgive  me  the  lit  fires  that  have  gone  cold, 
Forgive  me  this  frail  skeleton  that  stands 
Against  the  sky,  the  shadows  it  keeps  making! 
You  who  are  regent  of  what  man  commands 
When  beauty's  torture  drives  him  to  be  bold, 
Forgive  him  the  brief  loves  his  life  keeps  taking 
To  save  the  want  of  you  from  growing  old! 
Forgive  his  senseless  tears  and  his  soul's  aching! 


SPRING  BUILDING 


At  noon  the  sound  of  hammering  dies  and  wind 
Scatters  loose  shingles  from  the  untended  gable. 
The  carpenter  at  the  door-frame,  grizzle-skinned 
And  gaunt,  spits  brown  as  far  as  he  is  able. 
He  steps  across  the  mud  upon  a  stone 
Where,  with  an  elbow  and  an  arm  at  rest, 
He  sits,  half  quiet.    He  is  not  alone. 
I  watch  him  as  he  leans  against  the  West. 


ii 

Not  from  the  carpenter,  but  from  the  things 
Men  never  know  of  men  I  look  away, 
And  where  I  look  a  massive  mountain  flings 
Dark  rocky  fingers  tipped  with  rosy  gray 
Up  through  its  snowy  mantle  at  a  sky 
Steeled  to  a  perfect  temper  of  keen  blue. 
The  breath  of  a  thin  wind  blows  faintly  by, 
More  warm,  more  lovely  now  than  hitherto. 
Not  so  much  at  the  peak  as  at  the  things 
I  know  of  it  I  look  through  the  noon  ease, 

30 


SPRING  BUILDING  31 

Made  wistful  by  near  songs  and  nearer  wings 
And  runnels  of  singing  water  and  sighs  from  trees. 
Not  sharply,  but  through  distances  and  veils 
I  wonder  at  what  earth's  elements  arrange; 
The  rock,  the  tree,  the  flesh  and  blood  that  fails. 
I  wonder  where  in  this  evolving  change 
I  stand  that  life  burns  so  in  breast  and  limb. 
I  wonder,  and  in  the  wake  of  wonder  fear 
Comes  with  its  rapture  to  that  mind,  grown  dim 
With  safety  which  so  blindly  led  me  here.  .  .  . 
Here  where  the  forest  waits  its  time  for  falling 
And  mountains  feed  their  power  to  little  streams 
And  after  dark  the  hungry  beasts  go  calling 
And  last  year's  leaves  lie  rotting  in  sun-beams. 

in 

Now  I  stretch  out  my  arms  in  ravishment, 
Or  would  but  for  the  near-by  carpenter, 
Toward  that  old  mountain  in  devout  dissent 
From  too  much  human  triumph,  too  much  stir 
Of  the  absurd  infinitesimal 
Before  my  eyes.      I  stretch  out  eager  arms 
At  least  in  spirit,  and  the  great  ice-fall 
Which  once  lay  thick  above  these  valley  farms 
Seems  like  a  living  thing,  and  the  vast  sea 
Whose  silty  shifting  piled  these  pinnacles 
Heaves  once  again  in  deep  tides  over  me 
Sweeping  strange  pain  with  passionate  old  swells 


32  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Up  from  my  heart  to  islands  in  my  eyes. 
Now  I  submit  to  what  I  almost  know 
And  laugh  in  hope  of  being  so  made  wise 
Because  I  too  survived  that  long  ago 
Gestation  and  am  now  a  man  who  hires 
Others  to  raise  my  walls  and  lay  my  sills 
And  bring  me  food  and  scuttle  out  my  fires 
Under  the  watchful  silence  of  these  hills. 


NIGHT  ABOVE  THE  TREE  LINE 


You  berries  that  are  full  of  the  dark  dusks 
Of  mountains  and  the  moisture  of  chill  dews, 
Swell  on  your  stems  and  break  your  ripened  husks 
For  lips  which  it  would  wither  you  to  lose — 
If  there  are  lips  to  what  is  wandering  here 
Feeling  you  underfoot  in  the  rocky  night, 
Moving  about  like  wind,  blowing  you  clear 
Of  mists,  hanging  your  leaves  with  drops  of  light. 


Listen!    There  is  a  sound  of  water  falling 
Down  the  dark  shafted  night  into  the  trees. 
Wild  birds  that  should  be  quiet  now  are  calling. 
How  shall  I  sleep  to-night,  troubled  with  these? 
The  cool  wind  through  the  moon's  invisible  strings 
Blows  like  a  striking  of  clear  silver  bars; 
The  great  black  peak  shudders  and  leaps  and  swings 
And  I  am  blinded  by  the  fall  of  stars. 

33 


34  GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 

HI 

I  cannot  rest.     I  cannot  quiet  my  limbs. 
A  sense  of  climbing  keeps  my  body  burning 
And  the  white  flame  sweeps  over  me  and  dims 
All  that  inclines  within  me  toward  returning. 
Did  I  see  only  earth  once  long  ago 
And  only  flesh  in  faces  turned  to  me? 
Sleep?    Rest?    With  my  senses  shaken  so 
And  the  world's  valleys  lost  so  dizzily? 


IV 

Why  have  I  come  so  near  the  fearful  stars 
When  what  is  in  me  is  so  much  a  want 
Of  utter  dark  too  thick  for  any  wars 
Of  flesh  and  spirit  dazzlingly  to  haunt? 
I  do  not  know.    I  do  not  want  to  know ; 
Only  to  make  a  fire  of  weariness 
And  fling  myself  upon  it  and  burn  and  go 
Thinly,  like  smoke,  to  wind-walled  quietness. 


FIREWOOD 

The  glittering  crescent  of  my  blade 
Is  stuck  with  juices  of  the  tree: 
There  is  the  wound  which  I  have  made, 
There  are  the  dark  boughs  over  me. 
I  swing  the  axe.     The  cones  are  shaken 
And  the  shuddering  tree  begins  to  come 
With  ripping  shrieks  which  might  awaken 
The  gorged  fox  in  his  hidden  home. 
My  blood  is  brightened  and  my  eyes 
Are  blurred  with  flashes  of  a  fire 
That  leaps  like  wind  and  only  dies 
When  I  have  cut  what  I  require. 
The  fresh  chips  falling  in  the  snow 
Have  something  for  the  sunny  wind 
Which  rose  a  little  while  ago 
In  the  old  spruce  forest  I  have  thinned, 
And  I  whose  cheeks  can  feel  it  blow 
Rest  aching  hands  upon  my  axe 
And  have  a  desperate  wish  to  know 
What  kind  of  flame  my  chimney  lacks  .  .  . 
Why  covet  skeletons  for  food 
To  keep  a  man  from  stiffening 
With  cold  not  made  to  chill  the  blood 
Of  fox's  foot  or  bird's  wing. 
35 


PROSPECT 

The  eagle  hangs  so  close  I  see  a  stir 

Of  ragged  feathers  fronting  the  strong  wind 

And  in  the  blue  beyond  where  my  limbs  were 

This  very  morning,  colors  strangely  thinned 

With  downward  distance  which  are  intervals 

Full  of  green  stands  of  grass  and  pastures  cropped 

By  much  diminished  cattle,  threads  of  walls 

And  shiny  runs  of  streams  that  seem  to  have  stopped. 

Only  the  steady  eagle  is  above  me 

Hanging  in  the  wind  that  goes  blowing  by. 

It  is  as  if  the  earth  were  trying  to  shove  me 

Like  a  finger  upward  into  the  tall  sky. 

And  I  could  be  the  finger  but  for  a  strange 

Disturbing  taciturnity  in  the  mass 

Of  living  forest,  a  silence  in  the  change 

Of  light  across  it  where  cloud  shadows  pass 

Which  seems  to  mean,  What  can  a  man  point  out, 

A  man  whose  blood  is  watered  so  with  doubt? 


36 


MOOD 

Some  things  make  issue  of  the  loveliest  hours 
And  mar  the  lightest  leisure.    These  are  dead. 
White  wings  of  evening  fold  among  the  flowers 
And  winds  attach  me  to  them.    I  am  led 
Up  where  the  birches  shake  in  the  sun's  glow 
And  hemlocks  watch  their  wavy  shadows  grow. 

I  am  forgotten.    The  lit  solitude 
Effaces  all  my  lineaments  and  name. 
Life  is  among  my  limbs,  and  where  I  stood 
Stands  an  unbodied  rapture  gone  to  flame. 
Some  things  make  issue  of  attained  desire. 
I  do  not  know  nor  heed  them.    I  am  fire. 


37 


PROMONTORY 


On  rocky  islands  half  at  sea 

The  derelict  waters  in  a  windy  glare 

Crash  and  are  broken  and  drip  dazzlingly. 

The  green  kelp  swirls  like  drowning  hair 

Lifting  and  falling  with  the  tide. 

The  surf  has  a  motion  which  shadows  ride 

As  tree-boughs  ride  the  air. 

Shadows  of  cliff  and  shadows  of  cloud 

Rise  and  fall  with  the  sea 

And  wild  winds  heavy  and  loud 

Clutch  downward  fearfully. 

Against  the  earth  a  loom  of  waves  and  a  whirr 

Of  sea-fowl  banked  like  mist. 

Against  the  sky  a  streaming  stir 

Of  earth-blown  clouds  that  belly  and  twist. 

n 

Man  with  his  basket  hunting  nests 
Moves  through  the  high-tide  spray 
And  the  gulls  with  their  stone-gray  breasts 

Flutter  and  glide  away 

38 


PROMONTORY  39 


And  the  crossing  shadows  of  their  wings 
Melt  in  the  gullies  and  the  moss. 
What  is  it  that  in  a  man's  heart  sings 
When  the  shadows  cross? 
When  overhead  the  many  million  cries 
Break  loose  from  blood  and  bone 
And  the  sea  seethes  toward  the  skies 
And  the  crevice  flowers  are  blown? 
Man  with  his  basket,  hunting  eggs, 
Goes  clambering  with  hands  and  legs 
Over  the  rocks  by  the  shore 
In  search  of  food,  in  want  of  more. 


ni 

On  rocky  islands  half  at  sea 

The  derelict  waters  rise  and  fall 

Close  fettered  to  their  flow  and  never  free 

And  the  great  sea  of  air  from  which  birds  call 

Struggles  within  the  limits  of  the  wind 

And  the  great  world  of  stone  and  sand 

And  brown  earth  blown  and  thinned 

Clings  to  its  globe  with  many  a  rocky  hand, 

And  birds  of  blowing  wind  invade 

Dark  waters,  swift  as  falling  stars, 

For  fish  that  swarm  the  weedy  bars 

Wide-eyed  and  afraid. 

Men  with  their  baskets  hunting  nests 

Move  through  the  high  tide  spray 


40  GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 

Taking  the  wind  and  the  mist  to  their  breasts, 
Frightening  birds  away. 


IV 

What  is  it  that  in  a  man's  heart  sings 

When,  with  the  thundering  sea  in  his  ears 

And  the  breath  of  the  great  sky  shrieking  of  fears 

And  the  sharp  earth  bruising  his  feet,  he  brings 

His  basket  over  the  cliffs  and  home 

To  mouths  too  sure  that  he  will  come? 

Man  the  hunter  of  birds  and  beasts 

That  in  their  hunger  hunt  their  kind 

And  crouch  in  their  rock-homes  over  feasts— 

A  man's  heart  sings,  but  what  of  his  mind? 

How  shall  he  know  what  it  means  to  be 

Master  of  wing  and  master  of  sea? 

How  shall  he  know,  who  has  better  than  claws 

To  tear  red  flesh  for  hungry  maws 

Why  he  walks  erect  while  the  fox  runs  low? 

Why  he  remains  when  the  sea-birds  go? 

How  shall  he  know  why  life  goes  around 

Its  circle  above  and  underground 

Through  sea  and  sky,  in  flood  and  gale 

Through  feather  and  foot  and  fin  and  tail? 

How  shall  he  know  man's  destiny? 

What  shall  he  think  himself  to  be? 

How  shall  he  walk  by  the  strength  of  the  sea 

And  hide  his  withered  certainty? 


THE  PASSENGER  PIGEON 

The  dead  and  gone  are  not  so  ancient  now 

That  there  is  no  fluttering  of  their  wild  wings  heard. 

Still  living  travelers  still  remember  how 

They  darkened  long  days'  journeys  when  they  stirred 

By  millions  from  woods  broken  by  their  wings 

And  how  the  beat  and  bustle  of  their  quests 

Shut  out  the  sound  of  all  earth's  other  things 

And  the  ground  was  soft  with  feathers  from  their  breasts. 

Now  they  are  gone,  even  to  the  last  lone  pair, 

And  men  who  never  knew  them  go  their  ways 

With  equal  clamor  and  an  equal  air 

Of  riding  in  the  saddle  of  docile  days. 

This  that  is  like  a  street  is  like  a  wood 

Broken  by  famished  wings  grown  fierce  for  food. 


41 


FISHING 

Down  the  white  water  and  the  dark  pool 
Over  the  rocks  the  wind  blows  and  the  songs 
Of  birds  with  only  half-discovered  names 
Wait  for  the  wind  in  places  which  are  cool. 
How  should  I  know  whether  the  earth  belongs 
To  me  or  I  to  earth  when  all  the  claims 
We  have  on  one  another  are  blown  away 
And  masks  fall  from  the  faces  of  all  things 
Strangely  and  suddenly  and  the  light  of  day 
Climbs  back  to  heaven  in  cloud-stepped  clamberings? 
I  have  come  for  a  man's  reason  with  hook  and  line 
To  trouble  the  swift  water  under  the  stones 
Where  wise  trout  flash  their  darkness,  but  as  the  wind 
Blows  warm  through  bodies  of  great  trees,  through  mine 
A  passion  blows,  burning  my  very  bones 
And  making  flame  of  the  dust  that  is  in  my  mind. 
This  then,  instead  of  fishing,  is  an  hour 
Of  being  one  with  earth,  as  if  her  quiet 
Had  taken  the  shape  for  which  a  young  life  aches 
In  heart  and  mind,  as  if  for  leaf  and  flower 
There  were  half-hidden  limbs  and  for  the  riot 
Of  river  water  such  riot  as  blood  makes 
In  flesh  that  touches  beauty  long  desired 

42 


FISHING  43 


And  for  the  song  of  birds  a  whispering 
From  cool  lips  wet  like  petals  and  inspired 
With  needless  music,  for  the  wandering 
Of  shadow-footed  clouds  an  altering 
Of  shadows  in  the  brain,  a  moving  on 
Of  darkness  into  seasons  long,  long  gone. 


SNOW 

Last  night  a  brooding  cloud 
Of  undecided  mist 
Lay  on  the  mountain  pasture 
And  the  brooks  were  loud. 

Now  running  waters  lie 
Faint  as  far  bells 
Under  a  soft  white  silence 
And  the  birds  ask  why. 


44 


WINTER  FIRE 


Neither  the  moon  beyond  the  sill 
Nor  any  flaming  of  this  fire 
Touches  at  all.    The  night  is  still. 
The  last  spruce  lifts  a  shadowy  spire; 
And  there  are  stars.    They  may  be  shaking- 
Lurching  through  orbits  mad  with  storm — 
But  light  from  them  comes  faintly  breaking 
Against  the  world  and  is  not  warm. 
Everything  seems  far  away. 
Even  my  heart,  so  wildly  beating, 
Seems  as  remote  as  yesterday 
And  all  its  sea  of  life  retreating 
In  ripples  from  a  littered  beach 
Not  even  waves  can  any  longer  reach. 


n 

Oh,  false,  false  world  of  shamefaced  solitude! 
Cold  house  of  shell  I  carry  like  a  snail! 
If  I  should  rise  and  rush  into  the  wood 
Would  you  rise  up  and  follow  me  or  fail? 
45 


46  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

There  the  white  body  of  the  moon  lies  bare, 

Bathed  by  the  shining  stream  of  many  a  star 

And  if  I  hasten  I  shall  find  her  there, 

Her  silver  limbs  looped  in  what  winds  there  are. 

What  would  it  be  if  I  were  not  afraid 

To  know  tjiat  her  beauty  sheathes  a  bitter  blade 

Tempered  by  terror  whitened  to  delight? 

Would  you  dissolve  and  yield  me  to  the  night? 


ni 

Too  much  afraid  of  even  the  star's  fire 

I  have  too  long  sat  watching.    The  flame  falls, 

And  happy  heralds  of  unwise  desire 

Beat  with  their  hands  and  heart-beats  at  my  walls. 

I  hear  the  tongues  of  many  vivid  trees 

In  mouths  of  the  mysterious  dusk  go  crying 

At  doors  and  windows  which  converge  on  these, 

My  body's  channels,  that  should  be  replying. 

How  can  you  hold  me  dumb,  you  strange  chill  thing? 

How  can  your  icy  roots  invade  a  heart 

Taught  by  wild  voyages  to  climb  and  sing 

Nearest  the  sun  where  all  heart  burnings  start? 


IV 

What  matter?    Fling  aside  the  doors 
And  let  the  snow  come  rushing  in. 
Drift  it  deep  upon  the  floors, 


WINTER  FIEE  47 

Pile  it  high  where  I  have  been! 
I  shall  rise  and  strip  me  bare 
And  tear  the  snow-veils  from  the  West. 
They  are  warm  enough  to  wear, 
They  have  wrapped  the  moon's  breast. 
They  are  lovely!    They  will  thaw 
Rivers  frozen  in  my  veins, 
Seas  for  tidal  stars  to  draw, 
Lakes  for  suns  to  suck  for  rains. 
I  shall  wear  the  snowy  mist 
And  with  strength  I  never  had 
Leap  and  lie  down,  fiercely  kissed, 
By  the  stranger  and  be  glad. 


OPEN  WINDOWS 

The  grackle  in  the  pavement  tree 
Creaks  news  of  Northward  airs 
And  human  voices  come  to  me 
By  other  ways  than  stairs. 

The  curtains  stir  in  winds  that  touch 
Like  ministering  hands; 
The  murmurings  of  Spring  are  such 
One  almost  understands. 


48 


THE  WOODMAN 

Who  is  the  dark,  deep-chested  fool 
That  tends  my  body's  hearthstone 
And  will  not  let  the  red  bricks  cool? 
Who  can  he  be  that  walks  alone 
Through  forests  in  my  mountain  heart 
Piling  the  great  logs  in  his  cart? 

All  through  the  night  I  lie  and  hear  him 

Felling  wonderful  tall  trees. 

His  tread  is  heavy  and  I  fear  him, 

Yet  by  the  gleam  he  furnishes 

I  read  the  writing  on  the  wall 

Traced  by  his  shadow,  dark  and  tall. 


49 


LIFE 

In  crotchy  trees  the  worms  weave 
A  dreadful  house  of  gray 
And  there  they  live  by  no  one's  leave 
To  writhe  the  hours  away. 

And  there  they  spin  their  silences 
Hour  after  quiet  hour 
Unseen,  unheard,  in  happy  trees 
Busy  with  fruit  and  flower. 

Until  one  Summer  a  tree  lacks 
Green  leaves  to  look  upon 
The  farmer  with  his  final  axe 
Finds  all  its  young  heart  gone. 


50 


GROWTH 


Long,  long  ago  a  host  of  wonders  were 

Articulate  about  me — little  birds 

In  branches  bright  with  bloom,  the  happy  words 

Of  waters  falling,  the  unceasing  stir 

Of  windy  oaks  against  the  ancient  sky, 

Blue  gentians  growing  in  unshadowed  places, 

Green  willows  and  quiet  cows  and  farm-boys'  faces, 

Loud  wagons  on  the  highway  rolling  by, — 

All  these  were  part  of  something  I  have  lost 

Among  new,  breathless  hours  grown  heavily 

Tumultuous,  that  will  not  let  me  see 

Through  other  windows  than  these  white  with  frost 

Of  too  much  Winter,  the  impassioned  light 

Which  once  gave  things  I  met  with  their  delight. 


51 


AFTER  THE  CIRCUS 

I  can  remember  how  the  memory 
Of  fat-hipped  women  and  strong  chalky  horses 
And  men  in  red  and  gold  hung  heavily 
From  rafters  in  my  eyes,  how  other  forces 
Recruited  among  peanuts  and  popped  corn 
Marched  in  my  middle.    I  remember  now 
A  miserable  sense  of  having  worn 
Too  small  a  hat,  so  that  my  dizzy  brow 
Reeled  in  the  settling  dust  behind  the  mare 
From  town  to  home  along  the  river  breezes 
Inflamed  by  blasts  of  trumpets  and  the  glare 
Of  white  lights  hanging  among  high  trapezes. 
Yet,  for  relief,  I  have  still  more  in  mind 
How  a  great  bird  I  never  hoped  to  see 
With  wings  like  winds  of  storm  that  beat  me  blind 
Flew  up  and  startled  both  the  mare  and  me. 
So  great  the  power  of  its  sudden  flight 
The  very  day  was  altered  and  my  brain 
Burst  from  its  bonds  and  followed  the  sloped  light 
On  through  the  maples  to  the  bird  again, 
And  then  the  look  of  clowns  and  the  blare  of  brass 
Was  gone  and  something  came  to  the  road's  edge 

52 


AFTER  THE   CIRCUS  53 

And  the  breath  of  it  blew  petals  to  the  grass 

And  it  took  me  in  its  arms  and  sang  a  pledge 

I  have  not  yet  forgotten  into  me. 

So  much  for  circuses  or  for  any  event. 

The  coming  away  is  the  reality. 

The  coming  to  one's  self  is  what  is  meant. 


SEASON'S  END 

This  is  the  end  of  the  Summer. 
This  is  the  end  of  all. 
The  sap  is  running  back  into  earth 
And  the  red  leaves  shudder  and  fall. 

If  I  could  shake  myself  down 
From  the  stem  that  has  ceased  to  flow, 
Would  there  be  a  cool  dark  earth  to  close 
Round  the  things  I  have  come  to  know? 


54 


ROCK  FOWLER 


A  weary  man  with  Winter  in  his  eyes 
Though  it  is  but  September  by  the  skies 
Leans  on  his  axe  and  rests.    The  afternoon, 
Clear  blue  above  but  for  a  visible  moon, 
Touches  the  hills  with  lips  and  leaning  breasts 
Such  as  a  man  imagines,  when  he  rests, 
To  approach  the  burning  body  of  his  dream. 
Over  the  West  there  is  a  fiery  gleam. 
The  rosy  mountain  seems  to  ride  a  sea 
Of  valley  shadow  rippled  with  mystery. 
Among  the  scant  limbs  of  young  tamaracks 
A  weary  man  leans  on  his  weathered  axe. 
A  passer-by  upon  the  stony  road 
Calls  from  a  creaking  of  malodorous  load. 
The  wind  stirs  in  a  skeleton  of  maple 
With  fingers  full  of  voices.    A  loose  staple 
Falls  from  a  withered  fence-post.    A  horse  neighs. 
A  distant  window  catches  the  sun's  blaze. 
Earth,  with  its  contours  and  ineffable  hues 
Seems  to  burst  upward,  undeterred  by  shoes, 
And  enter  into  the  mind  of  him  who  stands 

66 


56  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

At  sullen  ease  with  an  axe-helve  in  his  hands ; 

And  what  the  winds  can  see  behind  his  eyes 

Is  doubt,  even  terror,  burning  ember-wise— 

Doubt  of  the  solemn  silence  and  the  wonder 

Of  this  sure  earth  and  the  dome  it  travels  under; 

As  if  his  thirty  years  had  played  him  false, 

Fed  him  with  fear  of  things  beyond  his  walls, 

Stolen  the  strong  laughter  which  could  kill  misgiving 

And  frozen  the  heart  that  fills  the  brain  with  living. 

Rock  Fowler  is  as  free  as  wild  things  are 

Of  all  but  the  fear  of  reaching  for  a  star, 

But  there  come  moments  to  men  so  made  free 

When  man  seems  an  impossible  thing  to  be; 

When  in  a  moment's  rest  from  opiate  work 

Gray  spiders  crawl  from  places  where  they  lurk 

Across  unsettled  leaves,  as  fatefully 

As  ever  dramatist  sent  mystery 

To  shadow  settled  things  with  shapes  of  meaning 

And  set  the  tower  certainty  to  leaning. 

So  to  a  man  half  busy  with  green  posts 

A  minute's  rest  is  a  minute  full  of  ghosts — 

Of  fox-fires  in  the  spirit's  twilight  bogs — 

Ghosts  that  rise  up  within  him  from  the  logs 

He  has  left  lying  in  the  path  of  peace 

And  from  old  roots  whose  bleeding  will  not  cease. 

Safe  from  the  penetrating  eyes  of  men 

The  trees  seem  subtle  spies.    What  then?    What  then? 

What  is  a  man  to  do  and  where  to  go? 

What  trees  may  learn  soon  even  dust  will  know. 


ROCK   FOWLER  57 

There  was  this  morning  when  an  old  tramp  strode 

Drunk  as  a  goatfoot  satyr  down  the  road 

Wearing  a  feather  in  his  ruined  hat. 

Now  when  he  rests  Rock  Fowler  thinks  of  that. 

He  lifts  his  axe  and  swings  so  bitterly 

That  dead  twigs  shower  from  the  doomed  young  tree. 

And  yet  the  great  tap-root  of  torturing  doubt 

Still  clutches  earth  and  sucks  much  power  out. 

Rock  drops  his  axe  again  and  wipes  his  brow 

And  wonders  what  the  tramp  is  doing  now 

And  why  the  comic  spectacle,  being  gone, 

Still  fills  his  mind  like  something  to  be  done 

Which  frightened  voices  warn  him  of  and  cry, 

"Life  is  a  hurt.    Avoid  its  avid  eye!" 

The  pine  trees  shiver  with  a  sudden  sigh 

And  rosy  clouds  range  up  the  Eastern  sky. 

The  ground  leaves  rustle  and  a  sweet  shrill  bird 

Blows  silver  and  far  off  and  faintly  heard 

A  grouse  booms  and  small  squirrels  crash  through  seas 

Of  drifted  leaf  at  ebb  tide  among  trees. 

Rock  takes  his  axe  and  wanders  toward  his  shack 

Half  fearing  lest  the  tramp  be  coming  back 

To  storm  the  citadel  of  his  reserve 

By  being  something  he  should  have  to  serve. 

He  hurries  clumsily  along  the  road 

As  if  he  were  a  horse  which  terror  strode 

And  gripped  and  guided  with  relentless  knees 

Toward  what  it  is  that  no  man  ever  sees. 

No  print  but  pressure  of  the  footless  wind 


58  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Flattens  the  grasses  at  his  door.    Behind 

The  blistered  panes  no  things  but  shadows  loom. 

Nothing  but  silence  paces  the  muffled  room. 

Rock  enters  and  starts  echoes  from  the  floor. 

He  flings  his  axe  in  the  corner  by  the  door 

And  lights  the  stove  and  stretches  out  his  hands. 

A  shaft  of  vanishing  sun  strikes  where  he  stands 

Through  the  blue  stove-smoke.     He  averts  his  eyes, 

Afraid  of  what  that  sunlight  might  surprise. 


ii 


A  leaf  moves  in  the  wind  from  shade  to  shade 

And  timid  trees  withdrawn  into  themselves 

Whisper  and  worry.    Winter  has  thrust  a  blade 

Through  creviced  branches  and  their  nested  shelves 

Trying  the  way  to  go.    The  watchful  rabbit 

Is  changing  coats  with  something  hopefully, 

As  if  the  fox  could  never  change  his  habit 

Of  looking  for  what  rabbits  used  to  be. 

A  short  rod  from  the  upper  pasture,  black 

As  water  gathered  in  unfathomed  pools, 

There  is  a  clump  of  spruce  whose  limbs  drop  back 

And  touch  the  mold  so  that  the  breath  which  cools 

Their  shadows  buries  their  fingers  with  a  drift 

Of  leaves  and  needles  and  the  ground-vines  weave 

Above  and  under  them  and  light  ferns  lift 

Faces  they  cover  with  a  sweep  of  sleeve. 

Safe  in  this  dark  the  gathered  grouse  sit  sleeping 


ROCK   FOWLER  59 

Sure  that  for  birds  there  is  nothing  else  to  do, 

That  hostile  beasts  with  limits  to  their  leaping 

Such  as  could  lose  them  grapes  must  lose  grouse  too. 

A  leaf  moves  and  there  comes  a  sudden  scrape 

Of  strong  wings  moving  against  flaky  bark, 

Then  silence.    Then  the  tree-tops  take  on  shape 

And  visibly  move  across  the  upper  dark 

To  the  measures  of  the  wind.     There  comes  a  chatter 

Of  squirrels  shaking  in  their  strange  red  rage 

Aware  of  something  ominous  in  the  patter 

Of  needles  upon  leaves  grown  shrill  with  age. 

Now  it  is  lighter  out  beyond  the  trees 

Than  the  cock  grouse  who  stands  on  a  spruce  root 

As  motionless  as  stone.    A  rabbit  sees 

The  shadowed  shape  and  halts  with  lifted  foot. 

Then  something  on  the  wind  or  in  the  light 

Infusion  of  the  dawn  dissolves  their  fear. 

The  rabbit  drops  and  hurries  out  of  sight 

And  the  grouse,  sure  no  danger  can  be  near, 

Lifts  a  slow  foot  and  struts  with  neck  and  breast 

In  search  of  sunlight  or  a  fall  of  seeds 

Under  a  beech  tree  somewhere,  or  in  quest 

Of  safe  dark  limbs  for  future  roosting  needs. 

Suddenly  from  his  peace  among  the  ferns 

TheT)ird  starts  up  and  away  with  a  burst  of  wings. 

Is  it  the  changing  East  which  suddenly  burns 

With  naked  sun  that  makes  him  think  of  things? 

Or  is  it  something  in  that  mossy  hollow 

Still  dark  with  shadow,  too  like  the  ghostly  dread 


60  GRANITE   AND  ALABASTER 

Birds  have  of  power  which  their  wings  must  follow 

Eventually  to  the  level  of  the  dead? 

Something  in  black  and  gray  like  a  fallen  tree 

Yet  nothing  like  a  tree  because  of  a  hand 

Full  stiffly  of  dried  moss  which  used  to  be 

Part  of  a  green  where  lichen  trumpets  stand 

Delicately  now  at  the  foot  of  a  sloped  beam 

Of  morning  sun  on  the  billowed  floor.  ...  Is  this 

The  source  of  that  which  forces  winds  to  seem 

Awful  and  anguished?    And  if  not  what  is? 

How  shall  the  forest  know,  when  suddenly 

The  moment  passes  and  the  stately  bird 

With  grave  feet  and  high-throated  dignity 

Returns  to  the  diligence  his  fear  deferred? 

How  shall  the  forest  tell,  the  forest  which  only 

Speaks  through  its  moving  boughs  and  cracking  twigs 

Its  usual  throats  of  creatures  fierce  and  lonely 

Its  noise  of  crisp  leaves  dancing  gusty  jigs? 

Or  if  it  does,  how  shall  the  great  grouse  know 

Who  mounts  a  log  and  spreads  his  splendid  tail 

And  the  ruffle  at  his  throat,  meaning  to  show 

Through  beauty  the  worthy  wonder  of  the  male? 

He  faces  to  the  East  and  then  to  the  West 

As  if  there  were  some  pattern  in  his  brain 

Of  certain  gestures,  lifts  his  vivid  breast 

As  once  he  did  in  April  in  the  rain 

For  inattentive  hens  who  turned  their  backs. 

At  a  pose  his  prancing  stops,  his  plumage  settles. 

He  is  quiet  a  moment  while  some  far  branch  cracks 


ROCK   FOWLER  61 

And  a  late  aster  bends  its  pallid  petals. 

Nothing  approaches.    Up  go  pointed  wings 

To  touch  their  tips  above  his  delicate  crown. 

A  strong  stroke  downward  and  the  aster  swings 

More  widely,  and  then  up  and  again  down 

Faster  and  faster  thumping  the  slow  air 

Till  the  forest  booms  and  rasps  with  scraping  bark 

And  leaves  which  lay  in  a  tense  stillness  there 

Leap  up  and  scatter  in  many  a  windy  arc. 

It  seems  almost  as  if  the  tree-tops  drew 

More  vivid  circles  across  the  upper  sky 

Because  of  what  these  frantic  wing-tips  do 

To  shake  the  trunks  which  twigs  are  anchored  by. 

Even  when  the  boom  of  the  last  beat  is  done 

And  the  bird  struts  again  and  silence  floods 

Mixed  with  the  merry  yellow  of  fresh  sun 

Back  through  the  meshy  branches  of  these  woods 

An  echo  of  that  strange  strong  drumming  beats 

Somewhere  among  the  winds  to  measure  time 

Until  new  rise  and  fall  of  wings  repeats 

Its  meaning  and  the  cadence  of  its  rhyme. 

So  while  the  shadow  of  the  forest  falls 

Continually  nearer  to  its  piers, 

The  great  cock  at  unmeasured  intervals 

Utters  his  mystery  and  far-off  ears 

Keep  hearing  dimly  and  half  wondering 

Perhaps  in  terror,  and  sharp  breezes  blowing 

Keep  weaving  the  sound  into  the  songs  they  sing 

With  the  call  of  crows  and  the  sound  of  water  flowing. 


62  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

If  there  is  any  hen  that  hears  him  now 

She  does  not  come  nor  even  know  his  meaning. 

From  where  she  perches  on  her  sweep  of  bough 

She  has  an  eye  for  nothing  but  the  gleaming 

Of  pine  seeds  shaken  by  squirrels  from  their  cones 

And  beech-nuts  bursting  from  three-cornered  burrs. 

Perhaps  she  wonders  why  he  shakes  his  bones 

With  passion  which  blows  no  sign  of  spark  in  hers. 

No  matter.    He  keeps  rolling  at  his  drum 

Till  suddenly,  to  silence  listening, 

Sounds  other  than  of  grouse  or  squirrel  come 

Other  than  even  the  creak  of  a  crow's  wing.  .  .  . 

Strange  sounds  of  moving,  not  as  creatures  stir 

Over  soft  moss  and  needles  or  under  a  limb, 

But  entering  the  world  of  feather  and  fur 

Like  sense  of  death  grown  audible  and  grim. 

The  stately  bird  folds  his  gray  wings  and  leaps 

Swiftly  down  to  the  ground  and  is  lost  in  the  tangle 

Of  twig  and  fern  and  a  flight  of  others  sweeps 

Tip  and  away  at  many  a  sudden  angle 

To  safer  windfalls  where  uneasily 

They  sit  and  watch  with  wide-eyed  earnestness 

Far  shadows  where  the  fearful  thing  may  be 

Half  wishing  they  might  dare  to  fear  it  less. 

Nearer  it  comes.    A  strange  enormous  tread 

Snapping  green  boughs  that  lie  across  its  path 

And  shattering  stiffened  branches  of  the  dead 

In  sullen  strides  of  imminence  and  wrath. 

Nearer  and  nearer.  .  .  .  Past  the  gullied  hollow 


ROCK   FOWLER  63 

Where  cold,  clear  water  drips  like  melted  moons. 

Nearer  .  .  .  And  a  loud  tide  seems  to  follow  .  .  . 

Nearer  .  .  .  And  overhead  strange  music  croons. 

Then  at  the  other  side  of  an  old  clearing 

The  great  thing  towers  and  the  sloped  sun  glistens 

On  something  in  its  arms.  A  rabbit  fearing 

Mad  heart-beats  more  than  this  stands  up  and  listens. 

Up  goes  the  gleam  and  then  a  peal  of  thunder 

Bursts  into  smoke  and  bold  broad  wings  that  drummed 

Music  from  winds  and  made  the  whole  world  wonder 

Flap  faintly  till  their  last  hope  has  succumbed 

And  they  no  longer  stir  light  leaves  to  leap 

Nor  shoot  the  body's  arrow  from  their  bow. 

They  fall  unfolded  into  depths  of  sleep 

Colder  and  vaster  than  warm  lives  ever  know. 


in 

Rock  Fowler,  with  his  teeth  set  like  a  vise, 

Watches  the  dead  bird  with  ferocious  eyes. 

A  wing-tip  shudders.    He  lifts  up  his  gun 

And  blasts  the  quivering  thing.    The  echoes  run 

Once  more  among  dark  ledges  of  the  trees 

Engulfing  silence  in  a  tide  of  breeze. 

Man  with  his  shot  has  won  the  forest  world. 

Nothing  survives  the  heavy  danger  hurled 

From  shouldered  steel,  not  even  the  strong-winged  grouse 

King  of  this  region  of  sun-mottled  boughs. 

Dun  feathers  scatter.    The  king  stirs  no  longer. 


64  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Man  and  bird  have  met  and  man  is  stronger. 

Rock  leaps  a  log  and  reaches  for  his  prey, 

Then  stops,  goes  white,  and  snatches  his  hand  away. 

He  gropes  for  foothold  on  a  brink  of  fear 

Which  makes  him  struggle  back  yet  holds  him  near 

Where  the  dead  grouse  in  stiffening  repose 

Points  with  the  clutching  fist  of  his  strong  toes 

At  other  death  dissolving  in  forest  mold 

With  help  of  those  swift  ants  who  have  and  hold 

The  outer  crust  of  earth  and  are  the  link 

Between  dark  depths  to  which  their  tunnels  sink 

And  heavens  full  of  birds  that  swoop  and  feed 

On  many  a  march  of  their  black  antlered  breed. 

Rock  drops  his  gun  and  pendulous  terror  swings 

This  way  and  that  across  his  mind  like  wings, 

And  the  blood  rushing  back  into  his  brain 

Kindles  his  eyes  and  lights  the  thing  again. 

He  steps  a  little  nearer  as  if  afraid 

Of  what  his  tread  set  echoing  down  the  glade. 

He  looks  into  the  eyes  in  which  the  stir 

Of  spruce-crowns  across  sky  is  but  a  blur 

Of  thickening  motion  and  knows  who  it  is 

Whose  body  lies  there  at  the  foot  of  his. 

And  he  remembers  what  the  body  said 

But  yesterday,  and  how  last  night  in  bed 

The  memory  lay  beside  him  like  a  snake 

Invisible  and  large  and  kept  awake 

To  choke  his  skull  with  coils  of  chilly  black 

And  writhe  its  moist  tail  up  and  down  his  back. 


ROCK  FOWLER  65 

Now  that  great  serpent  is  at  large  once  more 

Here,  amidst  tranquil  root  and  squirrel-store. 

Rock  bends  to  see,  to  touch  if  he  should  dare, 

The  fearful  human  thing  stretched  lifeless  there. 

All  the  high  spirit  of  the  million  years 

Of  man's  ascension  through  the  flesh  he  wears 

To  what  he  is  among  the  untutored  beasts — 

The  crowned  mind  busied  with  more  things  than  feasts, 

The  red  heart  rich  with  many  a  happy  beat, 

The  shrewd  swift  fingers  and  adventurous  feet — 

All  these  have  gone  to  make  this  broken  one 

Who  shudders  beside  another  in  the  sun. 

He  sees,  as  no  small  brain  of  any  bird 

Or  any  crawling  beast  man  ever  heard 

Whistling  or  howling  ever  yet  could  see, 

Not  only  a  dead  man  but  things  to  be — 

Strange  shadows  of  this  death  projected  on 

Through  days  no  animal  is  sure  will  dawn.  .  .  . 

Shadows  across  Rock  Fowler's  frantic  wandering 

From  house  to  hill,  strange  echoes  in  his  pondering 

Of  simple  meanings,  things  a  man  must  meet 

And  have  a  solvent  for  or  taste  defeat 

And  go  forever  outlawed  from  all  ease, 

Frightened  by  mice  and  terrified  by  trees. 

He  sees  these  things  which  beasts  could  never  see 

And  so  is  not  a  beast,  for  beasts  are  free 

Of  all  that  crashing  in  the  wake  of  mind 

Which  comes  to  shatter  the  small  peace  men  find. 

So  a  man  stands  beside  another  dead 


66  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

And  out  of  tumult  in  a  troubled  head 

Distils  a  fiery  fear  and  out  of  fear 

A  bulk  of  black  bewilderment  drawn  near. 

It  shakes  him  as  an  axe-blow  shakes  a  tree 

And  as  the  chips  fall,  so  fall  heavily 

Hewn  fragments  of  the  bole  a  man's  blind  cells 

By  slow  accretion  build,  through  which  there  wells 

Upward,  like  sap  sublimed  from  subtle  earth, 

Into  the  mind  what  makes  and  mars  its  worth. 

But  far  unlike  a  tree  Rock  Fowler  falls 

And  like  no  shriek  of  branches  are  the  calls 

He  tries  to  utter  with  lips  full  of  leaves. 

The  earth  gives  and  the  patient  earth  receives. 

The  man  who  feared  is  without  fear  again 

And  valid  now.    A  fox  comes  from  his  den 

And  sniffs  the  sullied  air  and  lifts  his  throat 

To  rattle  warning.    Two  great  hawks  that  float 

Too  high  for  shadow  utter  their  shrill  cries 

And  look  through  dwarf  trees  where  a  dead  grouse  lies 

Beside  a  leafy  heap,  where  black  ants  pour 

From  root  to  root  across  the  piney  floor 

Busy  transferring  to  devoted  dust 

By  foot  and  fang,  inspired  with  frantic  lust, 

The  wanderer  elements  returning  blind 

From  high  adventure  in  the  living  mind 

Where  they  made  men  who  could  not  learn  to  live. 

Open,  you  Earth,  and  take  what  men  can  give  I 


AFTER  TWENTY  YEARS 
1898^-1918 

The  little  hill  this  side  the  sun 
Is  piteously  gray. 
Its  crevices  no  longer  know 
The  feet  of  yesterday. 

Loud  mimicry  of  desperate  war 
With  friends  who  stood  for  Spain 
Is  gone  from  these  unaltered  rocks 
And  will  not  come  again. 

Those  gray  victorious  bows  are  gone 
Which  once  we  saw  return 
Midst  whistles  and  resounding  guns 
From  seas  where  noondays  burn. 

The  little  boys  whose  laughter  leaped 
To  see  them  pass  the  piers, 
Are  lost  to  love  for  ships  of  war 
Deep  under  twenty  years. 
67 


68  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Yet  they  have  put  their  hearts  away 
And  risen  from  the  hours, 
And  some  there  are  who  ride  the  skies 
And  some  who  sleep  with  flowers. 

And  some  remain,  whose  hearts  are  mute 
On  lips  that  may  not  sing, 
Who  wonder  at  the  death  of  friends, 
At  battles  and  at  Spring. 


MEMORIAL 

Oh,  Countrymen!  What  tears  do  we  require 
Who  in  the  sight  of  uncreated  suns, 
Leaping  brief  lengths  of  lives  from  dust  to  dust, 
Pause  here  to  grieve  that  sap  no  longer  runs 
The  tall  stalks  of  young  bodies  one  time  thrust 
Up  through  the  flesh  of  women  wanting  sons? 
How  shall  we  save  from  earth's  engulfing  crust 
The  earthen  body  emptied  of  its  fire? 

If  we  must  weep  may  ours  be  bitter  tears 
Called  from  the  springs  of  body-bounded  wells 
To  celebrate  in  sadness  the  rich  dread 
Of  being  wide-eyed  children  lost  in  the  dells 
Of  forests  tall  as  stars.    Then  let  the  dead 
With  ropes  of  wind  ring  warnings  from  harebells 
For  us,  the  wandering  unshepherded, 
Left  to  the  wolfish  mercy  of  our  years. 


69 


AUTUMN  1918 

Lately  the  apples  of  a  burdened  bough 
Were  gathered  from  their  place  of  withered  grass, 
Lately  the  stubble  where  the  crows  are  now 
Uplifted  stalks  in  many  a  tasselled  mass, 
Lately  the  winds  blew  softly  by  coiled  vines 
Where  now  a  white  frost  rims  the  harrow-lines. 

Autumn  again,  and  with  a  graver  gray 
Among  the  shuddering  branches  of  still  trees  . 
Eyes  cannot  see  the  leaves  fall  and  be  gay, 
Thinking  of  fields  more  desolate  than  these; 
Thinking  of  voices  quieter  than  things  dead 
For  the  brief  time  that  snow  lies  overhead. 


70 


FEBRUARY  TWENTY-SECOND 

Suppose  one  never  heard  of  Valley  Forge, 
And  Washington  were  nothing  but  a  name 
Cut  in  the  rock  of  some  Virginian  gorge 
Where  never  anything  but  swallows  came. 

Suppose  December  on  the  Delaware 
Had  never  known  that  bleeding,  swift  retreat. 
To-day  would  be  a  day  as  others  are 
With  less  of  colored  bunting  in  the  street. 

And  nothing  would  be  absent  from  these  trees 
Which  wait  their  changing,  and  the  starling's  song 
Would  be  as  happy  and  as  harsh  as  these 
Shrill  notes  the  gray  wind  blows  along. 

And  the  careless  music  of  fast-melting  snows 
Would  ripple  in  the  gutters  and  be  gone, 
And  crocuses  would  follow,  and  the  rose 
Return,  and  the  world  go  on. 


71 


TO  THE  DEAD 


We  have  not  kept  the  faith,  and  will  you  know? 

Under  the  cold  calm  of  unhappy  snow 

Troubled  by  feet  that  still  have  ways  to  go? 

We  have  not  matched  your  enterprise 

We  have  not  dared  to  put  earth  from  our  eyes. 

Forgive  us,  you  who  have  the  earth  for  skies. 

The  new  year  leaps  from  the  black  bones  of  the  old 

Into  a  gala  night  of  manifold 

Whistles  and  bells  and  gay  hearts  warm  in  the  cold. 

We  have  the  torn  world  to  let  fall  or  lift, 

We,  who  steal  hot-eyed  glances  at  the  shift 

Of  passionate  shoulders  and  the  burning  drift 

Of  flesh-fires  among  fellow  celebrants. 

Forgive  us  you  whose  flesh  is  done  with  wants. 

We  are  too  much  our  own  inhabitants. 


72 


SENSES 

Men  and  women  speak  their  words  for  Heaven, 
I  see  them  holding  out  their  tambourines. 
Senses  are  only  five — If  they  were  seven 
I  wonder  if  we  should  know  what  Heaven  means. 

I  have  a  mind  to  ask,  why  follow  them? 
I  have  a  mind  to  ask  what  news  they  have 
Of  flowers  vanished  from  the  shaken  stem, 
What  news  of  God  this  side  of  the  grave? 

I  have  them  all,  touch,  sight,  speech,  smell  and  hearing 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  what  thing  is  here 
Beneath  this  weight  of  flesh  which  I  am  wearing, 
Nor  what  the  heaven  is  which  it  draws  near. 


73 


FLESH 


I  am  the  maker  of  the  shadow 
With  me  the  waters  of  the  pond  are  dark 
Waters  of  jonquil  and  willow 
Waters  of  drifting  cloud. 

It  is  I  who  take  the  light 
It  is  I  who  crush  the  flower 
And  I  am  the  thing  men  see 
Who  search  for  the  thing  I  hide. 


74 


MIDNIGHT:  BATTERY  PARK 

Neither  a  late  moon  nor  the  evening  star 
Lights  the  dark  moving  of  the  waters  here; 
Out  of  the  silence  the  shrill  turn  of  a  car 
And  the  lapping  of  waves  under  the  pier. 

The  light  of  the  street  lamp  cares  not  for  the  towers 
Whose  darkened  windows  rise  into  the  darkr 
Only  for  the  late  paths  and  the  border  flowers 
Stirred  by  the  harbor  winds  in  the  shadowy  Park. 

I  have  sought  silences  that  are  not  my  own 
And  I  have  almost  found  them  here  in  the  night 
Where  I  may  close  my  eyes  and  dare  be  alone 
With  what  a  man  knows  of  music  and  of  light. 


75 


OCTOBER 

Alexander  Wilson,  died  Sept.  1919 

How  can  I  hold  my  purposes  when  the  trees 

Let  fall  their  verdure  and  unbeautifully 

Pierce  the  October  gravity  of  sky? 

I  feel  an  inward  loss,  looking  at  these. 

And  a  friend  of  mine  is  dead  whose  ways  I  thought 

Were  something  like  the  many  leaves  that  make 

Marvels  of  life  from  sun  and  rain  they  take — 

Dead!  And  I  shall  not  know  him  as  I  ought! 

How  can  I  hold  my  purposes  when  men  die 

Like  scattering  skeletons  of  withered  green 

In  windy  corners  of  the  earth  and  lie 

Too  early  quiet  for  far  too  long?    I  have  seen 

Truth  in  the  trees  and  in  the  faces  of  men 

But  sometimes  I  think  I  shall  never  see  it  again. 


76 


WALT  WHITMAN 
1819-1919 

His  shining  presence  falls, 
Come  noon  or  midnight, 
On  meadows,  in  hallways. 
Build  no  memorials, 
There  shall  be  sunlight 
And  life-blood  always. 

What  his  breath  held  is  blown 
From  breasts  of  singers 
And  songless  creatures. 
Carve  no  didactic  stone. 
The  cutter's  fingers 
Are  his  true  features. 


77 


TO  A  SKYLARK 

OR  ANY  OTHER  BIRD 

At  dawn  from  flower- fondled  sleep  you  rise 
By  spirals,  so  they  say,  and  in  the  skies 
Exult  and  ride  and  from  your  throat  let  go 
Sweet  singing  falls  of  ravishment  which  blow 
Among  earth's  thunders  and  enwrapping  airs 
And  pierce  the  little  flesh  which  a  man  wears. 
Ah,  comfortable  bird!    If  this  is  so 
Study  the  sounds  and  syllables  which  flow 
From  all  men's  lips  and,  when  you  rise  again 
To-morrow  or  next  year,  sing  back  at  men 
In  their  own  language.    Say  there  is  no  merit 
In  using  wings  one  cannot  but  inherit, 
And  ask  what  members  man  can  use  as  well 
And  why  he  thinks  that  heaven  and  not  hell 
Is  reached  by  envied  flight,  and  why  he  sighs 
At  you  on  hungry  business  in  the  skies 
And  not  at  his  own  kind  at  his  own  door 
Likewise  employed  and  likewise  hunted  for 
And  likewise  troubled  much  by  storm  and  change. 
Say  that  for  man  to  envy  birds  is  strange! 
Rise  up  and  sing  and  say  things  wiser  still 
But  oh!  fly  high,  for  man  is  out  to  kill. 
78 


THE  DISSEMBLING  LOOK 

Is  it  so  precious, 
Is  it  so  dear 
That  you  must  hide  it 
When  I  come  near? 

You  know  that  I  know 
That  under  your  furs 
There's  a  warm  body, 
A  bloom  that  stirs. 

Why  give  me  marble 
When  I  want  blood? 
Why  give  me  parched  sand 
When  you've  a  flood? 

May  be  you  love  to  feel, 
When  I  have  passed, 
Life  blushing  back  again, 
Safety  at  last. 


79 


ADVICE 

When  you  go  down  town 
Turn  and  go  back. 
Only  ahead  of  you 
Is  the  sky  black. 

When  you  are  back  again 
Turn  and  go  down. 
There  is  a  darkness 
At  both  ends  of  town. 

When  at  the  noon  hour 
You  hurry  somewhere 
Take  someone  with  you 
Or  the  dark  will  be  there. 

When  you  are  safe  in  bed, 
Clock  striking  two, 
Think,  is  there  anything 
Darker  than  you? 

Then  when  you  wake 
Look  for  light  in  the  Park 
Or  else  keep  so  busy 
You  don't  mind  the  dark. 
80 


DIFFERENT  STREETS 

There  was  a  little  boy 

Solemn  as  stone, 

Who  walked  through  my  street 

Always  alone. 

Once  I  came  home 

By  a  different  way 

At  a  different  hour 

Of  a  different  day. 

There  was  the  little  boy 

Jubilant  then, 

Building  wet  snow 

Into  marvelous  men. 

Life  is  not  always 

Just  what  it  seems. 

Little  old  boys 

Have  happy  young  dreams. 


TO  THE  URBANE 

Who  cannot  drink  the  wild  winds 
Must  set  dry  lips  to  little  pools. 
Who  cannot  feed  upon  sun-fire 
Must  wait  until  the  sun  cools. 

So  raise  your  towering  city  walls 
You  miserable  all  I 
Build  strong  roofs  above  your  heads 
To  catch  the  stars  that  fall. 

Stop  your  ears  against  the  wind 
Ward  the  great  light  from  your  eyes 
Clothe  the  naked  earth  with  cobbles 
Tell  old  horses  you  are  wisel 


82 


EARLY  FLOWERS 


Mayflowers  once  and  violets  now 
On  sunny  corners  of  the  town; 
April  warmth  upon  a  brow 
Where  the  Winter  winds  have  blown. 

Tulip  now,  and  daffodil 
By  the  window  in  a  bowl. 
April!     Spare  one  breath  to  fill 
A  Winter-shaken  soul. 


83 


ILLUSION 

Silver  earth  in  a  grove  of  slanting  stars 

Blooming  and  waving  in  heaven. 

Moonlight  over  lonely  wavering  water, 

Marriage  of  silver  and  pearl. 

Have  I  lost  life  that  this  is  beautiful 

Beyond  the  memory  of  all  living  things  .  .  . 

The  sullying  squalor  of  breathing  men  and  women, 

The  clamor  of  their  ineffectual  ways, 

Life  and  the  need  of  living,  hunger  and  death? 

Black  against  a  dark  sky  lightened 

The  writhe  of  bending  pines  in  the  hands  of  the  night. 

The  moon  has  sent  chimeras  to  their  caves. 

Look!  What  is  it  that  walks  the  singing  Sound? 

Beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful,  beats  my  heart 

So  high  that  I  have  forgotten  the  bitterness 

Of  searching  a  long  street  for  it  in  vain 

At  noon  of  a  rainy  day. 


84 


THE  END  OF  MARCH 

This  is  a  sea  of  Southern  sun 
That  in  the  fingers  of  the  wind 
Sweeps  over  us.    The  storms  are  done. 
The  Winter  drifts  are  black  and  thinned. 
Even  the  streets  start  violets, 
Even  the  harried  heart  forgets 
What  Winter  was,  what  living  is. 

Now,  like  the  seedlings  of  last  year, 
Green  little  shoots  of  mortal  souls 
Reach  for  the  soil.    The  sun  shines  clear. 
Hyacinth  roots  grope  down  in  bowls 
As  men  grope  at  the  days  which  pass. 
The  white  roots  thicken  in  their  glass. 
They  have  their  limits,  man  has  his. 


85 


PARADOX 

Roots  of  the  green  tree  sucking  at  the  dry 
Earth's  crust  are  safe,  wings  wavering  in  wind 
Are  sure,  for  who  has  ever  seen  them  die. 

Though  there  be  pith-gorged  beetles  in  the  bole 
Though  there  be  hunters  crouching  in  a  blind, 
Leaf  and  wing  serve  tree-sense  and  bird  soul. 

Who  then  are  these  and  am  I  one  of  them 

Of  whom  men  say,  "When  person  pride  is  dead 

You  may  be  granted  the  adorning  gem; 

"When  love  is  stilled  you  shall  have  the  loveliest, 
"Pull  up  your  roots  and  you  shall  then  be  fed, 
"Care  nothing  and  ask  nothing  and  die  blessed." 


86 


THE  AMPLE  CLOAK 


I  am  forever  treading  on  and  tearing 
The  warmest  garment  which  I  wear,  a  thing 
As  like  the  shape  men  keep  inheriting 
As  fruit  is  like  a  tree  when  it  is  bearing. 
Most  of  the  alleys  which  I  walk  these  days 
Are  narrower  than  my  flesh  and  this  together, 
And  mostly,  when  I  venture  out,  the  weather 
Arranges  torment  for  it  a  hundred  ways. 
Perhaps  I  may  not  keep  it  about  me  always 
Although  I  am  nothing  but  what  it  makes  of  me; 
Perhaps  I  should  leave  it  hanging  in  one  of  those  hall 
ways 

Frequented  by  whomever  I  need  not  be. 
Perhaps  there  is  a  crack  there  or  a  hook 
To  catch  and  keep  a  piece.    I  shall  go  and  look. 


87 


QUATORZAINE 

By  the  early  light  of  our  precarious  lives 

The  rugged  world  seems  colder  than  it  is. 

What  do  we  see?    This  certainty  and  this, 

Truths  made  of  untruths  which  the  truth  forgives, 

Figures  of  clay,  imaginary  shapes, 

As  real  as  stars,  as  shadowy  as  smoke, 

Fears  which  unfounded  knowledges  evoke, 

Joys  and  delights,  we  foxes  and  they  grapes. 

We  foxes — hungry  as  in  ^Esop's  fable, 

That  scamper  off  to  a  pretended  world 

Where  no  one  knows  that  stones  might  well  be  hurled 

At  hanging  fruit,  where  all  are  charitable 

And  flatter  clever  beasts  for  calling  sour 

The  clustered  vines  that  climb  the  ivory  tower. 


PASSERS-BY 


Mostly  it  is  eyes  that  find  me 
And  your  eyes  are  gone. 
Shoestrings  I  have  little  need  of 
For  these  shoes  that  bear  me  on. 
So  I  let  you  fall  behind 
With  other  things 
To  which  I  am  blind. 


n 


And  you,  my  little  friend  of  the  gay  dress! 
In  a  swift  moment  of  encountered  eyes 
I  have  touched  your  hand  and  kissed  your  wistfulness 
And  looked  with  you  upon  eternities, 
And  I  know  that  neither  the  powder  on  your  nose 
Nor  the  amazing  things  you  wear  upon  your  feet 
Can  alter  the  gentleness  my  vision  knows, 
Seeing  you  hurry  past  me  down  the  street. 

89 


90  GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 

in 

I  know  you.    You  are  one  of  those  who  fear 
The  certain  end  of  their  uncertainties. 
Who,  never  having  had  possession  here, 
Still  seek  it  in  such  transient  things  as  these 
Bright  windows  looking  into  gaudy  places 
Where  there  are  wine-lists  and  long  bills  of  fare 
Arranged  for  girls  who  wear  their  shoulders  bare 
And  kindle  eyes  with  passion  from  their  faces. 


IV 


In  the  concert  hall 

You  are  the  musician 

I  the  listener. 

Here  your  fingers  touch  no  bow, 

Make  no  music  for  me. 

We  pass  one  another 

In  a  kind  of  silence 

As  if  we  were  dead. 


I  do  not  marvel  so  that  you  can  wear 
A  flower  in  your  tailored  buttonhole 
As  that  the  flower  does  not  perish  there 
In  the  Winter  of  your  soul. 


PASSERS-BY  91 


VI 


When  you  have  passed  and  other  eyes 
Have  found  me  with  a  new  surprise, 
I  know  I  shall  not  call  to  mind 
The  colored  hat  you  wore,  the  kind 
Of  dress  nor  anything  so  sure. 
Only  your  laughter  will  endure 
And  come  to  me  on  other  trips 
Down  other  streets  from  other  lips. 


LONGSHOREMAN 

Longshoreman  by  a  sea  of  sun, 

Much  wearied  by  too  many  bales, 

A  man  moves.    What  of  stone-chilled  gales? 

And  what  of  old  tasks  never  done? 

Too  low  the  rafters  of  the  pier, 
Too  high  the  piles  of  casks  and  cases, 
Too  little  light  in  fellow  faces, 
Too  loud  the  noise  of  living  here. 

Are  there  warmer  winds  than  these 
That  stir  dark  storms  of  stinging  dust? 
Are  there  waters  of  earth's  crust 
That  reach  sun-drenched  Hesperides? 

Longshoreman  with  a  life  for  hire, 
Bewildered  by  these  days  of  his, 
A  man  moves,  and  his  moving  is 
A  dark  wind  scattering  smothered  fire. 


92 


SOLILOQUY 

The  winged  seeds  of  early  flowers  go 

Dancing  on  the  wings  of  the  ground  wind, 

Cutting  their  passage  with  unstable  haste 

In  frantic  spirals  through  this  slow,  sad  brain. 

I  who  have  watched  the  passages  of  men 

Watch  these  and  time  the  watching  to  a  twist 

Of  idle  fingers  among  idle  grasses 

Making  a  motion  as  little  understood. 

The  high  and  certain  drift  of  afternoon 

Toward  an  evening  that  comes  creeping  up  the  hills 

Is  busy  altering  the  universe, 

Busy  with  clouds  whose  lovely  shapes  must  die. 

I  sit  upon  this  stone  almost  securely 

And,  seeing  the  seeds  blow  down  and  fall  to  earth 

In  the  relaxing  hold  of  the  faint  air 

And  the  crowned  trees  rise  up  and  stand  unstirred 

And  the  mountains   draw  their   shadows    about  their 

shoulders 

And  the  birds  stop  to  sing  on  branches  near  me, 
Feel  conquered  somehow  by  a  sense  of  joy 
That  takes  me  at  the  heart  and  at  the  eyes. 
Ah!    Why  so  beautiful?    Is  man  a  jewel 

93 


94  GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 

That  he  is  set  with  sapphires  of  delight 

And  rubies  of  impassioned  vividness 

In  the  rich  metal  of  earth's  atmosphere? 

A  jewel?    The  wounds  of  forests  on  the  hills 

Cry  out  against  him  and  the  wildflowers  break 

Never  to  rise  from  deep  man-trodden  hollows, 

And  the  birds,  such  of  them  as  still  have  life, 

Go  crying  weirdly,  sadly,  overhead. 

Then  why  so  beautiful,  great  Mansion  Earth, 

For  man,  mad-minded  enemy  of  all? 

Is  it  that  to  his  devastating  eyes 

The  bright  pain  of  your  beauty,  summoning  tears, 

Summons  a  gifted  vision  not  too  dull 

To  see  the  heart  of  his  eternal  strangeness, 

The  animate  power  of  that  tidal  sea 

Which  washes  over  him  and  is  the  world? 


SURRENDER 

Is  nothing  changed?  Nothing  in  all  the  town? 
Is  this  the  same  street  where  my  shadow  swam? 
Are  these  same  clothes  still  saying  what  I  am? 
Is  this  the  same  sun  settling  thinly  down? 

Is  the  same  door  still  subject  to  this  key, 
The  carpet  to  these  heels,  the  chairs  still  shoddy, 
The  bed  still  printed  by  my  weary  body, 
The  ceiling  still  the  same  height  over  me? 

All,  all  the  same.    Hence  my  bewilderment. 
Listen.    When  I  went  out  just  after  nine 
The  world  was  dark,  and  all  the  dark  was  mine. 
Beauty  was  dead,  all  beauty's  savings  spent. 

Then  all  the  world  seemed  muffled  with  deep  ashes 

And  every  step  seemed  walking  up  a  flow 

Of  lava  poured  across  all  ways  to  go 

And  heaven  seemed  a  mountain  crowned  with  flashes. 

That  is  exactly  as  things  seemed  just  after 
The  door  closed  on  my  going.    By  what  magic, 
If  things  were  so,  is  life  no  longer  tragic? 
Why  are  my  veins  blown  through  by  winds  of  laughter? 

95 


96  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Has  a  man  no  way  to  defend  himself 

When  the  peace  which  comes  with  dignified  despair 

Seems  ruffled  and  attacked  from  everywhere 

Like  a  high  hat  snow-balled  by  some  Christmas  elf? 

Not  I.    Let  sun  drive  dusk  from  doors  and  hallways. 
Let  the  brain  leap.    Swear  dancing  is  its  calling. 
I  yield.    But  leave  me  a  little  time  for  falling 
Down  on  my  knees  to  pray  that  it  be  for  always. 


SHIRKING 

I  should  have  gone  to  the  grocer's  shop, 
Down  the  alley  and  turn  to  the  right, 
To  buy  a  lady  some  corn  to  pop 
Over  the  coals  to-night. 

But  I  have  been  to  Symphony  Hall, 
Up  the  alley  and  then  in  the  cars, 
And  I  am  not  what  I  was  at  all — 
I  know  of  nothing  below  the  stars. 

% 

Marvelous  moons  are  where  lights  should  be, 
Down  the  alley  and  home  again, 
Moons  which  sing  as  they  gleam  at  me 
From  between  the  feet  of  the  rain. 

Suppose  I  had  gone  to  the  grocery  store, 
Dug  in  my  pockets  for  coins  to  spend, 
What  would  have  come  to  the  glamor  I  wore 
In  the  end? 


97 


BRETONNE 


Break  in  upon  the  boisterous  play  of  children 
Sculling  their  clumsy  boats  by  the  breakwater 
And  ask  them  why  she  stands  there  looking  outward. 
All  they  will  say  is  that  she  is  someone's  daughter. 
The  sunlight  falls  upon  a  tide  so  still 
That  corded  masts  against  a  cloudless  heaven 
Seem  not  to  move  nor  creak  nor  rattle  even 
And  there  is  no  whispering  from  the  pines  on  the  hill. 
Yet  at  the  last  stone  of  the  crumbling  wall 
She  stands  as  if  the  last  of  storms  were  blowing 
And  life  were  out  in  it  and  there  were  no  knowing 
Whether  any  colored  sails  would  blow  back  at  all. 
Ask  of  the  chattering  women  on  their  knees 
Beside  the  dirty  wash-pool  why  she  is  waiting 
And  they  will  laugh  a  laugh  which  speaks  of  hating 
And  point  to  their  heads  to  show  you  what  she  sees. 
Visions,  perhaps,  that  fill  all  things  with  fire 
And  little  ventures  with  enormous  fears 
And  make  a  young  girl  old  before  her  years 
With  the  fierce  burden  of  being  what  visions  require. 
Visions,  perhaps,  yet  when  the  tide  returns 
Lifting  the  kelp  on  the  rocks  as  wind  lifts  hair, 

98 


BRETONNE  99 

Someone  who  sailed  will  come  and  seek  her  there 

And  find  the  thing  she  is  but  not  what  burns 

Within  her  as  she  meets  the  villagers 

With  the  puzzled  blankness  of  her  strange  wild  face, 

Half  certain  there  can  be  no  proper  place 

In  the  world  of  bodies  for  a  trouble  like  hers. 


CIRCE 

What  slender  Circe  frightened  by  his  steel 

Gave  up  her  magic  and  with  crafty  care 

Forwarned  him  of  this  music  on  the  air 

And  made  him  fear  what  these  can  make  him  feel? 

Who  was  she,  the  mysterious  Sorceress, 

So  jealous  of  shore  sirens  and  their  song 

That  she  could  urge  him  to  make  surely  strong 

With  hempen  twists  his  human  willingness? 

Too  late  he  curses  her,  too  late  he  sees 

The  terrible  sweet  joy  those  sirens  tend 

With  blossomed  breasts,  moist  mouths,  a  balmy  bend 

Of  sea-foam  throats,  a  flash  of  vivid  knees. 

Their  white  arms  madden  him,  their  voices  drift 

Across  the  winds  with  laughter  from  their  eyes. 

Lashed  to  his  mast,  he  burns  in  heart  and  thighs. 

Ropes  bite  his  flesh,  choke  veins  grown  wildly  swift. 

Strange  Circe  said,  "Beware  those  asking  fire." 

Ulysses,  lingering  with  her,  drank  her  words 

And  changed,  not  to  a  beast  to  swell  her  herds, 

But  to  a  man  afraid  of  man's  desire. 


100 


CALYPSO 


Serenely  and  like  gentle  touch  of  hands 
The  sunny  wind  stirs  in  a  sad  man's  hair. 
Lulled  by  the  slip  of  ripples  on  far  sands 
He  lies  at  peace.    None  of  the  world  is  there. 
White  Helen  is  a  wisp  of  vanished  cloud 
Over  deep  memory;  Troy's  walls,  the  many  dead 
Are  gone,  half  hidden  in  a  grievous  shroud 
Woven  of  sea-sounds  and  winds  overhead. 
Remembered  Ithaca,  half  fair,  half  feared, 
Beyond  a  faint  horizon  rising,  falling, 
Floats  calmly,  waiting,  and  dim  things  endeared 
By  aged  distance  breathe  no  word  of  calling. 


Into  the  sleeper's  dream  the  living  sea 
Shaped  like  a  joyful  woman  whitely  warm 
Moves  with  rich  silence  and  rare  mystery 
With  lips  to  take  his  broken  heart  by  storm, 
With  hands  that  reach  up  round  him  to  draw  down 
Into  their  passionate  oblivion 
101 


GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

The  hurt  youl,  beaten  by  winds  wrongly  blown, 
From  which  all  help  of  heaven  has  passed  on. 
Her  breath  is  on  his  lids,  her  body  swims 
Into  his  aching  weariness.     Ulysses 
Flings  up  an  arm  to  eyes  the  sea-mist  dims. 
Above  the  wind  the  white  surf  booms  and  hisses. 


in 

The  sleeper  wakens  and  the  vision  fades 

And  the  world,  done  with  its  eclipse,  grows  clear. 

The  dream  shape  seems  a  sea  of  suns  and  shades 

And  Ithaca,  an  island  hidden  in  fear, 

Comes  through  a  silver  pain  into  his  soul 

And  that  immutable  Penelope 

For  whom  a  man  must  keep  his  spirit  whole, 

Shines  with  inexorable  tranquillity 

Down  on  despair  that  hangs  a  humble  head 

Between  her  and  a  shamed  swift  wish  to  be 

Safe  for  all  time  in  the  oblivious  bed 

Of  Calypso,  amorous  woman  of  the  sea. 


THE  WINDMILL 

By  the  sea  the  winds  must  blow 
For  the  sea  can  never  know 
When  a  landsman  miller  dies. 
So  the  winds  blow  down  the  skies, 
Blow  the  silver  mist  from  eyes 
And  the  sails  of  windmills  go. 
Giant  sails  at  sea  are  whirled 
Round  the  windmill  of  the  world. 


103 


WIDOW'S  WEEDS 

Black  clings  about  your  beautiful  unsleeved 
Young  body  as  windy  rain  about  the  stalk 
Of  a  lithe  poplar,  slender  and  small-leaved. 
Light  as  the  talk  of  poplar  stems  your  talk. 
Beautiful!     Of  what  are  you  bereaved 
That  grief  weds  with  your  shadow  as  you  walk? 

Why  such  a  splendid  lustre  in  your  eyes 

As  not  to  any  stranger  seems  like  tears 

For  any  part  of  man  that  ever  dies? 

Your  ornaments  of  sorrow  yield  to  the  years 

Which  keep  you  fresh.    Your  body's  poise  belies 

The  sombre  want  of  color  which  it  wears. 

From  foot  to  face,  like  wind  that  sets  astir 
Breasts  of  bound  water,  the  breath  of  living  runs — 
So  moves  the  flame  beneath  the  tigress'  fur, 
Howling  against  the  night's  diminished  suns 
From  lonely  thickets  for  one  gone  from  her, 
One  whose  hot  loins  are  a  cold  skeleton's. 


104 


NEW  SINGING 


FOE  G.  A. 


When  the  far  sun  falls  to  my  window-sill 
And  sparrows  in  the  gutters  chirp  and  chatter 
And  the  earthy  winds  of  morning  come  to  scatter 
The  night's  commandments  to  be  sad  and  still, 
Sweet  sense  of  you  comes  to  me  like  a  fire 
Searing  and  burning  vein  and  vision  clear 
And  you  are  not  a  goddess,  and  I  hear 
Wild  voices  singing,  singing  of  desire. 


ii 

Then  trooping  happiness  with  many  flames 
Comes  dancing  from  the  fringes  of  the  sky 
Attending  what  my  body  knows  you  by. 
I  rise  and  fling  out  arms  and  call  your  names. 
The  winds  of  morning  whistle  at  the  sill 
And  the  world's  beating  rises  from  the  stones, 
But  troops  with  torches  kindle  in  my  bones 
Wild  fires  of  you.    All  other  things  seem  still. 
105 


106  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

III 

Beloved,  how  shall  I  be  glad  of  you 
Who  have  brought  music  to  my  silences 
And  beauty  to  my  grass,  leaves  to  my  trees, 
And  with  your  vivid  fingers  now  undo 
The  beaten  darkness  of  those  bat-like  wings 
Which  for  so  long  in  my  cathedral  mind 
Stifled  what  holy  passions  I  could  find 
For  keener  light  than  sun  or  planet  brings. 

IV 

With  what  rich  gifts  of  what  adoring  state 
Can  I  heap  up  the  altar  I  have  built? 
Jewels  will  lose  their  lustre,  flowers  wilt, 
Songs  blow  away  and  promises  lose  weight. 
Should  I  bring  pagan  bullocks,  garlanded, 
To  bellow  in  the  porch  for  sacrifice? 
Should  I  bring  incense,  burning,  metals  of  price 
And  a  shimmer  of  colored  fabrics  to  outspread? 

v 

You  are  remembrance  of  some  happy  face, 
Dear  memory  of  once  honored  mystery 
Flashed  back  to  bitter  earth  to  bloom  and  be 
A  joy,  a  living  miracle  taking  place; 
And  I,  a  man  whom  beauty  blinds  with  aching 
And  the  pathos  of  desire  makes  desperate, 
Find  in  that  joy  a  new  twice-blessed  state, 
A  new  life,  a  young  heaven  in  the  making. 


PRESENCE 

Even  though  the  city  of  streets  and  darkened  hallways 

Sweeps  now  about  me  where  your  wonders  were, 

And  you  are  no  longer  here  to  minister 

To  hands  of  mine,  and  lips,  that  want  you  always; 

Though  there  are  strangers  where  we  were  together 

And  they  are  strange  because  I  have  lost  your  eyes, 

Though  little  puddles  scattered  by  feet  disguise 

Old  ways  we  walked  once  in  a  better  weather ; 

Yet  this  wet  wind  is  breath  that  quickened  you 

Before  you  vanished  and  left  me  here  alone: 

These  faces  that  pass  me  are  memories  which  renew 

What  you  once  were  in  the  dark  city  of  stone; 

What  you  once  were!     And  that  is  what  God  is,  even, 

To  hearts  like  ours  that  take  the  World  for  Heaven. 


107 


DANCE 


Against  the  valley  which  is  full  of  moon 
I  see  you  move,  feet  on  the  clustered  clover 
Like  rain-drops  upon  water.     The  sweet  croon 
Of  serving  instruments  is  faint,  the  clouds  go  over 
In  image  of  your  hair.    Your  hands  are  torches 
Carried  for  something  that  has  many  altars, 
Your  lifted  eyes  are  temples  in  whose  porches 
The  light  of  humbled  planets  kneels  and  falters. 
A  watching  fire  which  burns  like  dawn  in  me 
Leaps  out  and  after  you  as  breath  to  prayer, 
Trembles  beside  you,  touches  your  mystery 
And  flames  triumphant  in  the  dusky  air. 
Over  the  earth  like  light  on  bodiless  breeze 
I  see  you  blow,  I  see  your  swift  feet  flash; 
My  senses  shudder  and  fail  and  freed  of  these 
And  of  the  body  which  joy  burns  to  ash 
I  enter  you,  sway  fall  and  rise  above 
The  limits  of  this  creature  that  forgets, 
Failing  the  touch  of  you,  the  look  of  love 
And  spends  love's  peace  to  improvise  regrets. 
Leap  up,  you  Wonder,  to  the  music  of  joy, 
Move  to  the  measures  of  the  passionate  moon, 

108 


DANCE  109 

Dance  the  proud  chorus  no  man  can  destroy 

For  joy  is  life  and  limbs  will  stiffen  soon 

And  I  who  am  too  brief  to  understand 

Will  soon  be  blind  and  wear  a  heavy  hand. 

And  moon  and  clover  and  the  magic  wind 

Will  fade  and  all  life's  golden  blood  be  thinned 

Against  the  valley  which  is  full  of  shadow 

I  see  you  move.    You  who  are  living  light 

And  lovelier  life  than  ever  bloomed  in  the  meadow 

Leap  up  with  laughter!     Shatter  the  great  night! 


REACH  OUT 

Reach  out  your  hands  and  gather  the  light  which  falls 

Into  the  room  where  you  are  sure  to  be; 

Touch  with  your  fingers  those  unshadowed  walls 

And  let  their  presence  fill  you  happily. 

Not  that  these  things  are  melodies  and  joys 

But  that,  being  near  you,  they  have  stored  away 

Some  little  of  the  beauty  life  employs 

To  bear  you  through  disproof  of  things  I  say. 

Lift  up  your  arms  to  the  wind  that  blows  the  curtain 

And  know  that  I,  with  forehead  to  the  floor, 

Am  at  your  feet,  so  beautiful  and  certain, 

With  reverence  and  a  happy  fear  and  more 

In  want  of  just  such  flashing  of  sweet  fire 

As  your  hands  on  my  shoulders  might  inspire. 


110 


YOU  AND  I 

Were  you  a  tree  I  know  how  you  would  rise 
From  earth  made  green  with  lying  at  your  feet 
Against   fresh   wind   and   sun  made  strong   and   sweet 
By  touch  and  gleam  of  leaves  which  you  made  wise. 

Were  you  a  bird  you  would  be  just  the  one 
To  startle  silence  in  some  strange  wild  way 
By  flight  more  rosily  swift  than  rising  day 
And  colors  never  prismed  in  any  sun. 

Were  you  a  river  you  would  not  be  calm 
But  rather  with  rich  laughter  flash  and  stream 
Through  valleys  where  no  man  should  come  to  dream 
So  much  as  drink  you  thirstily  from  his  palm. 

Though  you  are  all  of  these,  yet  to  the  tree 
I  have  been  only  wind;  to  the  winged  thing 
A  watcher  only,  and  to  the  wandering 
Of  strong  bright  water  a  dreamer  who  could  see 
Only  an  image  of  his  reasoned  pride 
Wrapped  close  about  the  fire  it  hoped  to  hide. 


ill 


EPITHALAMIUM 


Across  the  sky  a  flight  of  burning  dust. 
The  air  grips  at  me  as  I  stand 
Held  to  the  wild  earth's  whirling  crust 
By  power  that  works  through  foot  and  lifted  hand. 
Swiftly  the  shoulders  of  the  hills  lift  against  the  stars, 
Swiftly  they  rise  and  cross  the  moon's  face. 
I  hold  tightly  to  the  pasture  bars 
And  plant  my  feet  upon  this  grassy  place 
And  close  my  eyes  to  close  the  sense  that  mars 
My  motion  through  the  circle  of  the  sky, 
Through  wind  and  fire  which  I  am  governed  by. 
Over  my  head  the  night  stands  like  a  sea 
And  the  stars  rock  and  dip  among  the  waves. 
Like  water  the  flood  of  life  sweeps  over  me 
From  wing  that  stirs  and  grass  that  paves. 
Even  the  peaks  that  pierce  heaven  with  their  flying 
Shudder  with  strength  and  splendor  in  their  places. 
Nothing  is  dead.    Nothing  is  even  dying. 
Life  leaps  like  fire  from  all  things,  all  faces. 
So  in  the  night  I  stand,  my  body  bearing 
Fiercely  and  blindly  in  its  inmost  vein 
The  secret  power  of  the  last  star's  staring, 

112 


EPITHALAMIUM  113 

The  passion  of  the  moon  for  fields  of  grain, 

The  anguish  of  all  hunger  and  all  pain; 

The  blessed  burden  which  gives  life  to  life, 

The  beauty  which  a  man  takes  shape  to  hold, 

The  breath  which  blows  through  bodies  like  a  knife, 

The  seed  a  man  is  moisture  to  unfold. 

And  all  these  things,  as  all  the  studded  skies 

Spread  moon  and  star,  I  pour  from  out  my  heart 

Because  of  hands  that  have  torn  wide  apart 

Great  stony  dykes  once  raised  against  surprise 

Which  kept  my  soul  from  navigable  waves, 

Racing  cold  corridors  as  dark  as  graves. 

Oh,  radiant  Wonder  I     Oh,  touched  Being!     I  turn 

Not  from  this  window  opening  out  of  me 

In  fear,  but  with  unlidded  eyes  that  burn 

In  image  of  imagined  destiny. 

I  reach  in  darkness  for  your  holy  hands 

To  touch  and  so  feel  something  taking  form 

Here  where  this  mortal  measure  of  me  stands, 

A  joy  to  blow  me  wise  with  splendid  storm. 

If  there  is  any  aim  or  end  to  this 

Great  outward  surging  of  stirred  blood  and  bone 

In  such  a  nearness  of  your  spirit  there  is 

More  perfect  sense  than  men  have  ever  known 

Of  where  it  lies  and  how  a  man  may  go 

Forever  in  its  way.    This  then  you  are. 

How  shall  I  say — be  glad — to  you  who  know 

More  fierce  strong  things  of  beauty  than  any  star 

Knows  of  the  upper  air?    How  shall  I  speak 


114  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

When  speech  is  only  a  kissing  of  the  hems 

Of  that  toward  which  the  dawns  of  your  eyes  break, 

Toward  which  you  rise  as  flowers  rise  on  stems? 

Oh,  Beautiful!    I  am  no  longer  young. 

Now  from  the  gentle  breast  of  your  wise  being 

I  lift  my  head  and  open  eyes  for  seeing. 

I  clamber  down  from  that  to  which  I  clung. 

I  take  on  stature  and  with  stature  grow 

Humble  that  I  have  fed  upon  you  so. 

Across  the  sky  a  flight  of  burning  dust. 

The  air  grips  at  me  as  I  stand 

Held  to  the  wild  earth's  whirling  crust 

By  power  that  works  through  foot  and  lifted  hand. 

Oh,  lift  your  face  and  give  my  lips  your  mouth! 

The  wind  of  Summer  sings  from  the  starred  South. 

Forgive  me  what  I  was  when  winds  were  West. 

Straining  the  blossomed  throbbing  of  your  breast 

Against  my  leaping  heart  I  feel  the  give 

Of  wild  earth  riding  onward,  fiercely  whirled, 

I  see  the  vivid  sun,  I  see  the  world 

Beyond  men's  brains  where  love  may  learn  to  live. 


STORM 

Over  the  mountain  now 
The  cold  clouds  ride  like  a  sea. 
Come  with  your  lips  and  your  brow 
And  your  breast  and  be  close  to  me. 

It  is  black  where  the  mountain  stands 
And  the  valley  streams  are  foam. 
Come  to  me  now  with  your  hands 
And  let  my  heart  go  home. 

There  is  only  one  way  to  meet  storm — 
With  a  flame  of  towering  fire 
Rising  from  hearts  that  are  warm 
With  wise  desire. 

Take  my  lips  to  your  brow 
And  let  me  look  in  your  eyes, 
For  over  the  mountain  now 
Wild  storm  winds  fling  the  skies. 


115 


NOCTURNE 

When  you  have  let  the  late  sun  burn  you  bare 

And  have  given  yourself  to  the  wind 

Come  look  for  me  and  I  shall  rise  and  tear 

The  darkness  from  old  spruce-woods  still  unthinned 

And  you  shall  have  it  to  bind  round  your  hair. 

When  you  have  lain  at  night  among  dark  trees 
Filling  the  heaven  of  your  eyes  with  stars 
And  your  white  body  with  the  singing  breeze, 
Come  where  I  am  and  I  shall  bend  the  bars 
Of  moonlight  to  whatever  shape  you  please. 

When  you  have  bathed  bright  breast  and  shining  shoulder 
Deep  in  the  darkness  of  some  mountain  pool, 
Body  to  body  take  me  and  let  smolder 
The  deep  fires.    Far  away  old  suns  grow  cool. 
Look!    Here  are  embers  that  will  not  grow  colder! 


116 


WORDS 

Not  all  the  help  men  ever  have  of  dreams 

Could  make  of  life  what  life  beside  you  is. 

Not  all  the  singing  of  all  vocal  streams 

Could  make  of  sound  what  with  some  strong-mouthed  kiss 

I  stop  upon  the  laughter  of  your  lips. 

Not  all  the  motion  and  fire  of  stars  and  suns 

Could  move  the  skies  as  in  my  finger-tips, 

Touching  your  breast,  the  life  is  moved  and  runs. 

Not  all  the  angels  of  eventual  heaven 

Could  do  with  darkness  what  your  eyes  can  do. 

So  I  choose  not  to  die  at  twenty-seven, — 

Perhaps  at  thirty  or  at  thirty-two. 


117 


THE  DURHAMS 


There  is  Niagara,  which  is  water  tumbling 
From  cliffs  which  keep  it  thundering  and  rumbling, 
But  that  is  nothing  to  the  fall  of  storm 
From  heights  of  cold  to  meadows  moist  and  warm 
In  Autumn  over  Windbrook.     In  November 
When  a  turkey's  life  is  down  to  its  last  ember 
A  little  wind  with  only  leaves  to  drift 
Creeps  from  the  West  to  Southward  through  a  shift 
Made  to  seem  very  like  a  lull,  and  then 
Blows  up  the  valley  toward  the  peak  again. 
Then  tides  of  mist  come  sweeping  from  the  sea 
And  climb  the  ridge  and  linger  dizzily 
And  plunge  like  sublimated  water  down 
Gray  gulleys  which  converge  upon  the  town. 
Where  is  Niagara  in  the  face  of  this? 
Diminished  and  outdone,  and  all  the  hiss 
Of  all  its  seethe  of  spray  is  but  a  quiet 
Beside  this  fall  of  storm-cloud  and  this  riot 
Of  frantic  pines  and  birches  bent  like  bows 
Drawn  to  ward  off  the  onslaught  of  their  foes. 

118 


THE  DURHAMS  119 

Just  such  an  Autumn  storm  was  in  full  course 

When  Abel  Durham  with  his  old  lame  horse 

Drove  up  into  his  dooryard  and  descended, 

And  young  Job,  through  the  window,  saw  what  ended 

The  long,  hard  time  of  two  men  badly  keeping 

A  house  whose  only  woman  was  one  sleeping 

Under  the  sandy  pines  beyond  the  road, 

A  woman  freed  of  her  enslaving  load. 

Here  was  another  woman  to  keep  going 

The  heavy  house  of  man,  and  winds  were  blowing 

Wildly  and  fiercely  so  she  might  not  say 

Ever  at  any  time  of  night  or  day 

That  her  coming  was  unwarned,  though  Durham  smiled 

In  partial  refutation  of  the  wild 

And  unequivocal  welcome  of  the  storm. 

The  old  man  brought  her  in  to  get  her  warm 

And  grinned  at  Job,  who  thought  them  man  and  wife 

And  called  up  the  best  features  of  a  life 

Devoid  of  women.    Durham  spoke  her  names, 

Not  any  of  which  were  Durham.    Two  small  flames 

Lent  by  the  lantern  to  her  eyes,  saw  Job. 

He  shook  her  hand  and  took  the  carriage  robe, 

Frightened  by  what  he  saw  that  spoke  to  him 

There  in  her  face,  so  very  far  from  dim. 

He  was  puzzled  by  the  strangeness  of  those  eyes 

Flung  backwards  over  a  round  shoulder  lifted. 

He  stayed  about  the  kitchen,  killing  flies, 

Watching  for  stove-lids  waiting  to  be  shifted. 

And  when  he  went  to  bed  he  saw  himself 


120  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Set  in  some  crazy  figure  like  an  elf 
Following  a  woman  through  place  after  place, 
A  woman  with  strange  meaning  in  her  face. 
And  then  he  woke  and  heard  a  woman  move 
Down  in  the  kitchen  lighting  up  the  stove, 
And  it  was  morning  and  the  sun  was  bright 
And  life  had  altered,  worm-like,  in  the  night. 


ii 

A  mild  man  with  a  gentle  silver  beard 

And  eyes  of  a  blue  no  baby  ever  feared 

And  large  black  clothes  and  little  quiet  feet 

Walked  in  his  room  and  rubbed  his  hands  for  heat 

And,  feeling  his  conscience  go  a  little  lame, 

Wondered  what  he  would  say  when  Durham  came. 

He  stopped  beside  his  table  and  lit  the  lamp 

Then  turned  his  head  to  listen  to  a  tramp 

Of  muddy  shoes  upon  the  snow  outside. 

The  sound  spread  like  a  ripple  and  grew  wide. 

The  mild  man  shook  with  insecure  relief 

Borrowed  from  respite,  and  turned  over  a  leaf 

In  a  large  lamp-lit  book  upon  the  table 

And  stooped  to  fortify  the  charitable 

Intention  of  his  mission  with  the  word 

Of  one  much  read  but  very  seldom  heard. 

His  straight  sweet  lips  moved  faintly.    His  eyes  closed. 

His  hands  closed.    His  head  swayed  as  if  he  dozed 

While  the  lamplight  fell  upon  his  fine,  smooth  hair 


THE  DURHAMS  121 

And  on  his  face,  and  made  it  seem  nowhere 

In  any  plane  at  all,  too  frankly  near 

For  any  heaven  and  too  faint  for  here. 

His  lips  moved  silently  and  then  he  rose 

And  crept  to  the  curtained  window  on  tip-toes 

As  if  the  God  he  prayed  to  might  discern 

His  human,  uncontrollable  concern. 

He  stood  a  moment  peering  into  the  dark 

Following  every  far-off  little  spark, 

Which  might  be  wagon-lights,  until  it  grew 

And  clattered  loudly  past  as  wagons  do. 

Once  when  one  heavy  bulk  without  a  lamp 

Came  almost  quietly  and  stood  breathing  damp 

Before  his  gate,  the  pastor's  heart  beat  higher 

And  chokingly  and  filled  his  face  with  fire, 

His  hands  with  dampness  and  his  feet  with  cold 

And  his  mind  with  unhappy  sense  of  being  old. 

He  saw  old  Durham  sitting  starkly  still 

As  if  awaiting  some  decree  of  will 

To  move  him,  saw  him  drop  the  reins  and  rise 

And  wrap  his  blanket  tighter  about  his  thighs 

And  then  sit  back  again  and  speak  to  his  team 

And  move  ahead  as  if  he  wouldn't  dream 

Of  stopping  there,  much  less  of  going  in 

To  be  addressed  in  terms  of  God  and  sin. 

The  pastor  wandered  back  into  his  chair 

And  threw  his  head  back  and  sat  panting  there. 

And  then  he  rose  again  and  paced  the  floor, 

And  at  the  window  and  the  loose-hung  door 


122  GRANITE   AND  ALABASTER 

The  wind  went  shuddering,  as  if  to  say 
That  nothing  is  to-morrow  nor  to-day 
Just  as  it  seems  to  men  who  think  their  brains 
Have  seen  and  follow  laws  which  God  ordains 
Without  consulting  life,  the  citizen 
Of  winds  and  places,  animals  and  men. 
The  grave  man  lighted  still  another  lamp 
And  then  resumed  his  lightfoot,  troubled,  tramp 
And  thought  that  he  would  try  the  woman  next 
And  so  be  more  inspired  and  less  perplexed 
And  lose  all  feeling  that  the  Winter  wind 
Is  nearer  than  the  Lord  to  a  man's  mind. 


in 

A  woman  at  a  window  watched  a  man 

Load  up  his  sleigh  with  bags  and  an  oil  can 

And  climb  aboard  and  gee  the  horses  off 

And  fog  the  air  a  little  with  his  cough. 

She  watched  him  to  the  highway,  where  the  team 

Broke  to  a  jingling  trot.    She  watched  the  stream 

Hurrying  under  the  bridge,  so  swift  and  certain. 

And  then  she  shuddered  and  drew  the  window  curtain 

And  stood  a  moment  pressing  at  her  cheeks 

With  anguished  fingers  which  left  livid  streaks. 

She  saw  the  mirror  and  was  reflected  there, 

And  watched  as  she  pulled  hair-pins  from  her  hair 

Letting  it  fall  a  little  about  one  shoulder, 

All  black,  no  gray  to  prove  her  growing  older — 


THE  DURHAMS  123 

All  black  and  soft,  far  softer  than  the  face 

To  which  it  helped  a  little  to  give  grace. 

The  curtain  at  the  window  flapped  in  the  draft 

And  the  late  Winter  sun  wedged  in  a  shaft 

Of  thin-blown  gold  that  reached  as  far  as  the  wall 

And  kindled  the  printed  roses,  thorns  and  all. 

The  woman  stood  and  listened  to  a  stir 

Of  heavy  moving  in  the  room  next  to  her. 

The  floor-boards  creaked  a  little  and  the  wall 

Shivered  and  made  small  grains  of  plaster  fall. 

The  woman  listened  and  stepped  nearer  the  door 

Loosening  a  button  in  the  waist  she  wore. 

She  spoke  in  a  voice  which  had  faint  shudders  in  it 

Asking  for  Job  to  come  to  her  a  minute. 

And  then  she  sat  and  stared  across  the  bed 

And  pressed  a  hand  palm-outward  to  her  head. 

She  said  "Come  in"  when  there  was  a  light  knocking 

Then  moved  her  noisy  chair  back  and  sat  rocking. 

Job  entered  timidly,  with  averted  eyes. 

His  hands  were  large  and  thick,  his  feet  of  a  size. 

His  voice  was  knife-edged  but  it  soon  was  warm 

With  other  lips  among  the  black,  soft  storm 

Of  loosened  hair.    The  old  walls  kept  their  creaking 

And  there  was  other  language  than  lip-speaking, 

Youth  crying  out  to  youth  and  fear  to  fear 

That  rich,  red  veins  beat  far  too  high  to  hear — 

The  strange  wild  anguish  of  unblossomed  lives 

Seeking  a  safety  in  what  the  moment  gives 

When  beauty  traces  beauty  among  limbs 


124  GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 

No  voice  of  reason  warns  nor  even  dims. 

The  world  was  on  the  other  side  of  walls — 

The  world  of  sleigh-bells  and  of  crisp  foot-falls, 

But  strange  volcanoes  of  half-planned  mischance 

Sometimes  burst  wide  and  do  a  fiery  dance 

In  the  impassioned  spheres  beyond  earth's  law. 

Neither  the  woman  nor  her  lover  saw 

Durham  creep  up  and  listen  at  the  door, 

And  neither  heard  the  creaking  of  the  floor. 

For  they  lay  still  and  listened  to  their  hearts, 

For  they  were  children,  and  no  child's  ear  starts 

At  such  small  things  as  sounds.    So  Durham  waited 

And  the  thumping  in  his  breast  was  unabated. 

And  then  he  heard  them  stir  and  felt  like  falling 

And  a  great  darkness  rose  and  stood  there  walling 

Life  and  the  living  from  his  furtive  brain 

And  all  of  him  seemed  breaking  under  the  strain. 

Back  down  the  stairs  he  groped  his  way  and  through 

The  dizzy  kitchen,  slamming  the  door  to. 

And  then  those  happy  bodies  above  stairs 

Leaped  to  their  feet  aware  of  life  that  wears 

A  cowering  defeated  look  and  goes 

Stooped  and  distorted  as  the  least  wind  blows. 


IV 


Far  up  the  slope  of  birch  and  brooding  fir 
Where  winds  in  green  strings  make  seolian  stir 
Of  rippled  singing,  little  feet  and  wings 


THE  DURHAMS  125 

Carry  the  lives  they  tend  and  thunderings 

Of  water  falling  from  far  rocky  walls 

Fade  among  mosses  and  the  sunlight  falls 

In  softer  silence.    The  shrill  cry  of  jays 

Shrieks  in  the  clearings  and  the  mole  obeys 

His  wish  to  hide,  and  world-old  gravities 

Are  disobeyed  by  this  year's  chicadees. 

There  to  the  windward  of  a  coppice  lies 

With  lowered  head  and  deep,  inquiring  eyes 

A  slim  white  thing  made  as  if  out  of  breeze 

That  carries  snow,  of  little  sapling  trees 

Rich  with  some  April,  delicate  and  rare, 

Too  beautiful  to  sleep,  for  unaware 

Of  things  less  beautiful  that  stalk  their  prey 

Beauty  is  never  safe.    By  night  nor  day 

There  is  no  rest  for  loveliness,  no  repose. 

Always  a  deer,  with  wakeful  ears  and  nose, 

Must  listen  and  breathe,  more  surely  when  a  doe 

From  throat  to  haunches  is  as  white  as  snow. 

There  by  a  coppice  of  dark  evergreen 

The  Windbrook  doe  lies  down,  unheard,  unseen. 

Like  a  grouse  booming  goes  her  restless  heart 

And  her  strained  flanks  keep  twitching,  ready  to  start 

Up  and  away  at  scent  or  sound  of  fear, 

At  sun  that  alters  shadows,  winds  that  veer 

And  carry  safety  with  them.    Always  so. 

There  is  no  peace  but  says,  "Rise  up  and  go!" 

The  forest  in  its  dusk  is  full  of  snares. 

Even  the  best  tuned  sense  comes  unawares 


126  GRANITE   AND   ALABASTER 

Sometimes  upon  inevitable  end 

A  hunter's  bullet  or  a  lynx  to  mend 
The  broken  life  and  bind  it  up  with  death 
And  suck  the  crimson  fire  and  stop  the  breath 
That  quickened  beauty  and  inspired  the  wood 
With  sudden  ecstasy.    Such  is  the  food 
Which  gives  the  busy  fittest  their  survival- 
Beauty,  of  which  there  may  be  no  revival 
Once  the  wild  seed  is  cleft  and  the  kernel  gone. 
The  white  doe  shudders  and  leaps  and  hurries  on, 


The  wind  among  roof  icicles  was  weird 
Although  the  sap  was  in  the  maple  roots. 
Old  Durham,  with  some  ice  in  heart  and  beard, 
Stood  in  the  doorway  brushing  off  his  boots. 
He  shut  the  door  and  slapped  it  with  his  cap 
And  lurched  across  the  kitchen  to  the  tap 
Where  water  trickled  over  pans  and  dishes 
And  shells  of  eggs  and  remnants  of  tinned  fishes. 
The  stove  was  cold.    There  was  not  even  sun 
To  slip  in  through  the  panes  and  kindle  it. 
With  such  a  fire  as  shines  for  everyone 
But  him  who  learns  that  life  is  a  misfit. 
Old  Durham  burned  his  fingers  on  a  match 
And  tore  his  coat-sleeve  on  the  woodshed  latch 
And  stumbled  in  the  kindling.    These  were  spears 
Of  that  world-militant  which  a  man  fears 


THE  DURHAMS  127 

Who  fears  himself  and  finds  that  mad  self  lodged 

In  all  things  neighboring  and  familiar 

In  all  the  shifts  by  which  he  ever  dodged 

The  fall  of  facts,  the  rise  of  things  that  are. 

The  stove  was  not  unyielding.    It  grew  warm 

And  Durham  rubbed  his  hands  and  held  them  near  it 

And  looked  through  frost-etched  windows  at  the  storm 

And  heard  the  wind  and  wished  he  couldn't  hear  it. 

He  found  some  rags  and  stuffed  them  at  the  sills 

But  there  are  crevices  which  nothing  fills 

In  men  and  houses  and  the  storm  still  shrieked 

In  lath  and  brain  and  both  those  frail  things  creaked. 

The  gaunt  man  sat  awhile  and  sucked  and  blew 

Breath  which  had  all  that  any  air  could  do 

To  feed  him  what  his  old  thin  blood  required. 

His  beard  kept  thawing  and  his  boots  perspired, 

And  there  were  demons  prodding  at  his  ease 

With  sharp  innumerable  miseries. 

He  searched  in  corners  for  more  window-cloths 

And  found  some  in  a  closet  full  of  moths 

And  under  them  a  woman's  pair  of  shoes 

Down  at  the  heel  and  broken  at  the  toes. 

He  dropped  the  rags  and  let  the  shoes  fall,  too, 

And  stood  and  stared  at  them  as  if  they  told 

Some  old  forgotten  thing  and  were  a  clue 

To  dishes  and  cold  stove  and  the  storm's  cold. 

He  looked  at  them  and  then  he  raised  his  boot 

And  kicked  them  as  he  might  have  kicked  a  root 

That  tripped  him  on  his  going  to  the  spring. 


128  GRANITE   AND  ALABASTER 

He  kicked  them  both  and  saw  them  fly  and  bring 

Hard  up  against  the  glaze  of  window-frost. 

They  crashed  and  went,  but  tongues  of  blizzard  crossed 

The  silver  threshold  of  the  shattered  panes 

And  stung  the  stove  with  little  stings  of  steam 

And  Durham  stared,  as  children  stare  at  trains, 

And  gaped  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  dream. 

He  swore  at  what  he  thought  was  hounding  him 

And  stuffed  the  holes  with  rags.     The  room -grew  dim. 

He  shifted  pots  in  fury  and  kept  looking 

To  see  if  things  were  done  that  sat  there  cooking. 

He  drank  his  coffee  warm,  like  milk  from  a  cow, 

And  ate  cold  beans  and  felt  the  cold  wind  blow. 


VI 

The  old  man  stamped  about  his  sugar-camp 

Counting  the  buckets  and  the  spigot  pegs, 

Wondering  how  ever  any  man  could  tramp 

To  all  those  trees  with  but  one  pair  of  legs. 

And  now  and  then  he  stopped  and  his  breath  came 

Thick,  like  a  horse's,  and  he  had  to  lean 

Against  the  brick-work  of  the  kettle  frame 

To  come  up  out  of  the  fog  in  which  he  had  been. 

He  had  his  gun  beside  him,  thinking  of  bear, 

And  once  he  stumbled  on  it  and  it  fell 

And  made  him  dizzy  to  see  it  lying  there. 

If  it  went  off  his  ears  had  failed  to  tell, 

For  they  were  thumping,  thumping,  with  a  heart 


THE   DURHAMS  129 

So  startled  that  there  seemed  no  more  to  start. 
He  stooped  and  raised  the  gun,  and  straightening, 
Saw  through  the  door  a  stir  of  something  moving 
Far  up  among  the  maple  boles.     No  wing. 
Perhaps  a  bear,  but  waiting  would  be  proving. 
He  stood  and  watched  and  seemed  to  see  a  blur 
Of  round  converging  wheels  that  came  and  went. 
He  wiped  his  eyes  and  still  there  was  a  stir 
Beyond  the  trees.    A  branch  swung  down  and  bent. 
A  windfall  crashed.    A  bird  far  out  of  reach 
Sang  in  the  barren  branches  of  a  beech. 
The  old  man  watched  and  neither  saw  nor  heard 
Things  which  were  yet  half  visible  in  his  brain— 
A  woman,  all  in  white,  a  little  blurred— 
A  man  whose  presence  irkcl  him  and  gave  pain; 
And  out  beyond  these  things  a  naked  grove 
Of  old  untimely  trees  and  drifts  of  snow 
And  a  faint  sense  of  something  waiting  to  move 
And  a  void  lull  of  winds  about  to  blow. 
He  took  a  breath  again  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 
There.    He  saw  it  now.    No  bear  moves  so, 
For  it  was  tinged  with  white,  and  white  implies 
Some  lighter  thing,  perhaps  the  rare  white  doe. 
The  old  man  trembled  and  swung  up  his  gun. 
It  shook,  but  the  sights  shone  clearly  in  the  sun 
And  then  he  seemed  to  lose  the  sighted  thing. 
There  was  a  swift  spasmodic  stiffening 
Of  finger  on  the  trigger  and  a  roar 
And  whatever  it  had  been  was  there  no  more. 


130          GRANITE  AND  ALABASTER 

Old  Durham  staggered  out  into  the  snow 
Helped  by  the  proud  unbending  trunks  of  trees 
Up  toward  the  place  where  there  should  be  a  doe 
White  as  the  snowflakes  of  a  Winter  breeze. 
And  then  the  images  came  back  again — 
The  irksome  man  came  striding  into  his  brain 
And  the  white  woman  lay  upon  the  ground. 
Then  something  flashed.    He  fell  without  a  sound. 


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